It was just past 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning when I found myself in the living room with my 7-year-old daughter. She was wearing a bright pink nightgown and scribbling away on a whiteboard. After we’d finished breakfast, I was busy clearing the table when I spotted a crumpled piece of notebook paper. Curiosity piqued, I unfolded it to reveal what looked like a portrait—sort of. I could see a face and some hair, though the lips were exaggeratedly large and the nose resembled a small shoe. Clearly, it was a drawing of a little girl by a little girl, and in the corner, it was signed: “Mia.”
“Did you create this?” I asked, holding it up.
Mia turned around and went a shade paler. “Daddy, you need to give that back to me right now,” she demanded, extending her hand.
“Why? It’s adorable!” I replied.
“No, it’s not!” Her eyebrows shot up, signaling her seriousness. “It makes me look,” she stomped her foot angrily, “like a dork.”
Before I could respond, she marched over, snatched the drawing from my hands, and tore it into pieces as if it were evidence of a crime. With a determined look in her eyes, she tossed the remains into the trash, then curled up on the sofa, burying her face in the arm farthest from me.
I sat there for what felt like an eternity, not quite sure how to approach the situation. My son’s mood swings I understood. He needed space and would eventually talk things over. But Mia? She was a different story. When she got emotional, it felt like a full-on performance. There were dramatic declarations about never hugging me again unless I allowed her to have a friend over, or threats to hurl a book at me if I made her read something too challenging. She wore her feelings like a badge, and often, I was left scratching my head.
This was one of those moments.
I glanced around; my wife was catching up on sleep after a long night with our toddler, and my son was off in his room. It was just Mia and me.
I sat beside her, tentatively rubbing her back, but she swatted my hand away without lifting her head. Silence filled the air, and I felt completely at a loss.
Finally, she whispered, “Lily drew it.”
“Oh,” I said, slowly realizing Lily was a friend from church. They’d spent time together in Sunday school, and evidently, Lily had decided to sketch Mia.
“I just look so nerdy,” she lamented, her voice muffled.
While I wouldn’t take a friend’s less-than-stellar drawing of my face to heart, I knew this was a common struggle I faced while trying to help my daughter navigate her feelings. It was likely the first time she had seen herself through someone else’s eyes. Sure, she had seen photos of herself, but this seemed to be one of those moments when you think, “Wait, do I really look like that?”
“Hey, Mia, your mom and I? Total nerds. We wear thick glasses and love to chat about books. It’s perfectly fine to be a nerd.”
She sighed heavily, as if to say, “You just don’t understand.” And she was right—I didn’t. The realization hit me hard; I might never fully grasp what she was going through. It’s challenging to love someone so deeply yet feel as if you’re speaking different languages. Honestly, I struggle to understand my wife sometimes too. Despite my efforts for equality and open communication, the differences between us can be stark, especially when I’m trying to support my daughter during tough moments. I want her to grow up confident in herself, but that’s no easy feat.
Not knowing what else to say, I fell quiet again. Then Mia spoke up, “I just look ugly. That picture shows how ugly I am.”
“Mia,” I began, “I’m not going to say that drawing was a masterpiece, or that the artist was a pro because I doubt you’d buy that. Honestly, I probably couldn’t do any better. But you have such beautiful blue eyes, and they’re so curious. Your nose is petite—definitely from your mom. You have a smile that draws people in, and your ears? They’re adorable! You’ve got my chubby cheeks, but they suit you perfectly. Your mouth asks such great questions, and I love that about you. That’s how I see you. If I could paint your portrait, that’s what I’d capture.”
She didn’t look up at first, but I could tell she was smiling because her ears perked up. Eventually, she sat up, turned towards me, and wrapped her arms around me tightly, burying her face in my side.
As a father, I seize every chance to remind my daughter how wonderful she is, so I took my shot. The hardest part is that it doesn’t matter how I perceive her; what truly matters is how she sees herself. So I told her that, probably not in the most articulate way. She squeezed me even tighter.
“I don’t know if what I said changes anything for you, but I hope it helps. I love you,” I added.
We lingered in that embrace for a while, and while I couldn’t tell if she felt completely reassured about her appearance, I sensed I had managed to lift her spirits a bit. For me, as a somewhat bewildered father navigating this parenting journey, that felt like a significant win.
In the end, parenting has its challenges, and understanding our children can sometimes feel like solving a puzzle with missing pieces. But the effort is always worth it.