Some Thoughts on Daughters
My older daughter is almost four, and I have lost count the number of times that someone has told her how cute or pretty she is. It happens constantly. At the grocery store, at the playground, walking down the street. These people aren't wrong. She is pretty. She has big eyes and alabaster skin and flaxen blonde hair that a woman on the street once described as "the color that millions of women pay thousands of dollars trying to achieve."
