A/N: Okay, I was actually really, really satisfied with how this ended up. I think it is better if read out loud, but I hope you guys still think it’s okay.
Today’s post is partly inspired by Jesse Dwight’s “If I should have a daughter” and partly by Sarah Kay’s youtube video by the same name.
I read Jesse Dwight (found here: https://jessedwight.com/2016/07/04/off-topic-if-i-should-have-a-daughter-i-would-want-her-to-know/) and I just had to write my own.
Anyway, enjoy, review, like, reblog, whatever you like!!
If I had a daughter I would take her to Paris.
Because if I had a daughter then we would walk through the streets of the city of love. We would stop at a small cafe bathed in sunlight for a croissant and a cappuccino, and she would pretend that she enjoyed the taste even though we both knew that she would secretly much rather have a coke.
We would go shopping then, and I’d moan and complain over how much money I was spending, but I would have a little secret smile, and she would only grin at me and tease me right back.
If I had a daughter we would go to the Louvre and look at the art. If I had a daughter she would love art. We would go through the galleries, and she would point out her favourite pieces, and we would see the Mona Lisa and I’d smile at the disappointment in her face when she realised how small and insignificant it actually appeared.
If I had a daughter I would teach her how to paint.
I would strive to never, ever teach her to stay within the lines.
“No,” I’d tell her. “Follow the lines or ignore them, whatever you please. But never draw a flower if you want to paint a dragon, and never paint a dragon if you want to draw a flower.”
And we would spent countless Sundays in the living room, because it would be the room with the best light, and we would paint, and she’d look at me anxiously and ask me what I thought, and I would tell her that it was perfect, that she was perfect, and that I was, admittedly, rather biased.
If I had a daughter I would teach her to hold her head high. I would teach her that she can be humble and modest and still be proud. I would teach her that pride can be either good or bad, and she should always consider the difference.
I would teach her to believe in herself even if no one else does, and I will try, though God only knows how hard it will be, to let her make her own mistakes and her own choices even if they were different choices than what I would have made.
If I had a daughter I would be there for her during heartbreak. I would sit with her in the couch and either plot the boy’s – or girl’s – death or simply offer a comforting shoulder to cry on. Whatever my daughter might prefer.
I would tell her of the heartbreaks I’d gone through; some of them serious, some of them fleeting, and a few nothing more than merely silly.
I’ll tell her of the time I was madly in love with a boy band called One Direction, and how I cried myself to sleep four nights in a row after my favourite member had gotten himself a girlfriend. And then my daughter would laugh at how ridiculous her mother had once been, and for only a second she would forget her own heartache.
If I had a daughter I would write her a note to skip school even though the wasn’t really sick. Then we would both sit at home and we would watch Pride and Prejudice again for the hundredth time, and we would eat chocolate, and drink cocoa, and fight jokingly over the blanket.
We would together sigh over Mr. Darcy, and cheer on Elizabeth’s sharp wit, and when the movie was over, my daughter would sigh and look at me and declare that it was admittedly rather okay despite being so very, very old. And I would laugh and tell her that I was alive when it was first published, and she will fall silent and clearly think that I am, in fact, also so very, very old.
If I had a daughter I would scream at her.
I wouldn’t want to, but it’s hard not to scream at a teenage girl. I’ll tell her to clean up her room, to stop being sassy, to just bloody well do what I’ll say, and she will scream back just as loudly.
We will both yell stuff neither of us really means and we will both be hurt and angry and betrayed, and it will all be because we are just so bloody much alike.
If I had a daughter I would tell her that I love her.
I would tell her as often as I remember to, even though she might not tell me back. Even though she might grow sick of hearing it, thinking it’s rather obvious, I’ll still remind her as often as I remember to.
If I had a daughter I would hug her and smell her hair and remember the delicious, powdery baby smell, which she used to have, and I’ll hold her just a little bit tighter than she holds me back, and I’ll tell her that I love her, that I have always loved her, and that I will always, always love her in the future.
These thoughts are what takes up all the space in my head as the doctor looks at me with compassionate eyes (pitying eyes, though I refuse to admit it) and tells me that I can never, ever have children.
As he tells me that my uterus is inhospitable I imagine a daughter, who has hair a little bit darker than my own, but my eyes and the stubborn tilt of my chin, but her very own strength, and I tell the doctor that I understand even though I really, really don’t. How can my daughter be dead when she hasn’t even had the chance to be alive yet?
And I leave his office under his worried eyes and I think.
I think about my daughter and I think about a trip to Paris, and art, and understanding, and fights, and hurtful words, and love.
And I think about all of this and I want to cry even though I simply can’t.
If only I had a daughter…
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