Daughters and Hiding Places

I love my daughters. Of course, you say, they are your daughters. But I think it is unfathomable to quite understand the phenomenoa of having a daughter until you have a tiny one placed into your arms. It is surreal.

This is my not-so-tiny-anymore baby of mine. She is adorable. She is beautiful. She looks so much like a Foohlar, from the big browns to the rosy cheeks. My other daughter was created in the image of her father. She is quite beautiful as well, with her lovely blonde locks and her bright blues.

I love that they are beautiful in their own seperate ways. But I mostly love that they have these personalities that are gorgeous. The determination, the kindness, the love they have for me. It will be fun, and at the same time, heartwrenching to watch them grow into young women, I hope and pray they will be strong. I cherish the thought of seeing them as mothers to their own daughters, children of an eternal family.

I mostly can't wait for the day my princess calls to complain that her daughter, my granddaughter, has once again lost her (shoes, glasses, gift card to Jamba Juice). Ahhhhh, yes, I'll say. Losing things. I know all about that. (I believe it's genetic, passed down through generations, just like freckles and size 10 feet.)

I'll say, "Why don't you look in her brother's room on top of his action hero helicopter landing pad? Or perhaps in her sister's closet, underneath the shoes, back behind everything?"

Because those would be the most likely places Your Daughter would put things.