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Why I Wished for My Daughter’s Awkward Phase
You can’t forge steel without a little fire.
When my daughter was about eight years old, we went to have lunch at some local sandwich shop. These teenage girls walked in. They must have been about 14 or 15 years old. I could tell because they weren’t fully autonomous yet. They were still at the mercy of the middle-aged woman who was driving them around for food.
These girls had a certain look about them. There was disdain on their faces like nothing pleased them. It didn’t seem directed toward anything in particular. Just run of the mill discontent that the world exists and that they had to be part of it. I refer to these girls as “Ugh Girls.” You have to roll your eye after you say that or it doesn’t work. Ugh. Eye roll.
I never said anything to my daughter about the girls or what I sat there secretly wishing for her. I looked at my cute little girl with the sparkly shirt.
She was still young enough to have unruly hair and not really know or care. I hoped to God that she would go through an awkward phase. Please God, let her be a little weird, for just a little while.
