17

I'm sitting on the side of my bed debating my next move on Words with Friends when my bedroom door gently opens and my freshly-turned (as in today) 17-year-old daughter bounces over to me with a small box in her hands.

"Look what I bought today with the money I got from Nana and Grandpa."  She opens the gold ornate box to reveal a palette of shimmering bronze, gold and brown eye colors.

"Wow," I answer.  "Those are really pretty."  As I say those words I am at the same time wondering how my daughter turned out so different from me.  In this very blog I could envision me writing about the problems with women feeling they need to hide their faces in color.  I would write about how cosmetic companies market to women to make them feel inferior--that the features they are born with will never be good enough.  But at the same time  I am torn, because for Sxylar the freedom to play with these colors is a form of expression.  For her it is an art.  She doesn't see the act of wearing makeup as limiting.  She sees it as limitless.

She and I are so different.  And I realize this is okay.  And I also realize I am not always right.

I remember an entry I wrote back in March.  In regard to Clara having Down syndrome I mentioned that none of our children turn out the way we expect them to.  They don't.  Let them be who they are and they turn out better.

I look at this young woman sitting beside me and I smile because I raised her.  And she is beautiful.  Happy birthday, my baby girl.  I'm so proud of you.  Thanks for helping me see the world through your eyes.