Part 1

A Daughter is a Gift
by Joanne Davis

“The finest inheritance you can give to a child is to allow it to make its way on its own.”

-Isadora Duncan

Imagine, if you can, a tiny girl dressed in a pair of pink cotton pajamas who is getting ready to go to bed.

Maybe she's a “mommy” girl who bathes her baby dolls in a little plastic tub before tucking each one into its cradle at night. Or maybe she's a bookish child with a taste for fairy tales about enchanted ponies and magical princesses who live in faraway kingdoms. Perhaps our girl is a temperamental tantrum-thrower who won't brush her teeth, won't take a bath, and insists on staying up late. Though her parents try to quell the rebellion, their steely resolve melts like ice cream when they see her impish face turn fiery red, just as it did the first time they held her in their arms and fell in love. Because, you see, she isn't any little girl, she is their little girl-their daughter. And the moment is perfect.

A daughter is a gift. Whether or not those words have ever drifted through your mind in a quiet moment of deep reflection, the truth is undeniable. A daughter is a gift of extraordinary value. Signifying the hopes and dreams of the parents who gave her life, a daughter is a victory garden where relationships blossom, emotions flourish, and innovative ideas take root. “A Frenchman once wrote that 'daughters are flowers o' the home,'” the father of a newborn recently recalled. “Now that I have a little girl of my own, I understand why.”

What is it about daughterhood that creates such mystique, igniting our love and affection? Perhaps the sheer variety of daughters is part of the allure. While one little girl is notoriously a “tomboy” with a passion for climbing trees in her overalls, another is a “mother's little helper” who dons her apron as soon as the first mixing bowl comes out of the cupboard. A “daddy's girl” in shiny black Mary Janes who trails her father around like a lovesick puppy is not to be confused with a bookworm who loves to be alone in the library stacks.

“Modern daughters are amazingly varied,” a middle-school teacher said recently. “While some girls are homespun and traditional, others are full of fire and vinegar, blazing new trails with innovation. When you start to generalize about girls, make sure to leave plenty of room for the rugged individuals.”

Our teacher is right. For as many daughters as there are who bake cookies, knit sweaters, and run a baby-sitting club, there are just as many who shoot hoops, shoot skeet, and shoot movies. In today's world, womanhood is about reaching one's potential, often in areas long reserved for men. “To be all that you can be,” as the saying goes, is a modern daughter's prerogative.

“When our little girl was born,” one new dad noted, “I held her in my arms, wondering how her life would unfold. Would she be a rocket scientist-or a culinary artist? A jet pilot-or a nurse? Years ago these choices were unrealistic for women; now my daughter can wish upon a star-and then become one. The freedom of choice is great.”

Getting to this place of opportunity has not been easy. Hard-fought battles waged by strong-willed women over long periods of time have allowed modern daughters to improve their lot. A girl in America today can have a room of her own, a voice of her own, and an individual identity in a world once governed by stereotypes, glass ceilings, and imposed restrictions.

The blood, sweat, and tears of women who courageously stared down repression have given rise to a new day.

No longer is every woman's place in the home. “We've come a long way, baby” is literally true for every girl.

In this climate, every daughter owes a debt to the women before her who made sacrifices. Maybe the nineteenth-century French writer Colette expressed it best when she wrote, “Whenever I feel myself inferior to everything about me, threatened by my own mediocrity, frightened by the discovery that a muscle is losing its strength, a desire its power, or a pin the keen edge of its bite, I can still hold up my head and say to myself, 'Let me not forget that I am the daughter of a woman who bent her head, trembling between the blades of a cactus, her wrinkled face full of ecstasy, over the promise of a flower, a woman who herself never ceased to flower, untiringly, during three quarters of a century.'”

Had Colette's mother lived to witness her child's success, surely she would have agreed that a daughter is a gift.

Copyright © 2003 by Redbridge LLC

About the Author

Joann Davis - formerly a successful editor and now an agent, packager and writer, brings to this series a decade of experience working on bestselling inspirational projects.