Harper told me today that all the kids at daycare played with June and not with her, and that it was because she didn’t have her nails painted like June.
Probably, the other kids played with her but she felt bad about her plain nails. I surmise that this is the case, because she said to me “all the other kids hate me,” and I said, “how do you know that,” and she said “I don’t know,” and I said, “did they say that,” and she said, “no,” and I said, “then how can you know that,” and she said, “I just know.”
And my heart broke. Hard.
I told her all of these things that I’ve always considered horse shit lies that therapists and well-intentioned but insightless dick bags told people like me to make us feel better and to conceal the fact that, really, they’re just judging us too, like everyone else.
And here’s the funny thing: this time I actually believed them. It was unbelievable to me that when I asked my daughter what she liked about herself, at five years old, her answer was “nothing.”
Fuck all that.
I can tell you ten great things about that kid right freaking now.
So now we’re going to play pits and peaks at night, like always, but we’re going to name one thing we like about ourselves every single morning.
Being authentic is really fucking hard. And not caring whether people like or accept you, just as you are, is not possible. But being authentic no matter who accepts you – the honest you – can be done.
It has to be done.
Because if not then you’re at the mercy of your worst insecurities. I will not allow my kids to place an external value on themselves. Not now. Not at five years old.
That shit is a nasty habit, and I know from personal experience how hard a habit it is to break.
Not on my watch, you magnificent little psychopaths.
Here. Here’s today’s TimTim.
Well, yesterday’s. I’m late.
Which is becoming another of my bad habits.