I Pretty

I have several nieces, lovely ladies all, and the second of these is Sarah, my adorable, wonderful, precious girl. She is as old as my marriage, and at 2 1/2 she loves all things that sparkle. I understand this because I grew up in the 80s. Sparkles were all we knew.

So Sarah is now at the age where everything that is pretty must be worn at all times, and everything that sparkles must be handled. Earlier this year, my mom gave Sarah a pink fairy outfit complete with wings, and Sarah was understandably even more excited about this than I am when I discover at the end of the day that my underwear and socks accidentally match. Sarah twirled and sashayed and glowed and twinkled. She admired and cooed and bowed. She delighted and bloomed and declared in look and in word, "I pretty."

I can remember the day I received my twirly slip. We lived in Ohio at the time, so by default I was under six years old. I don't remember where we bought it, when we bought it, if I was with my mom at the time, nothing about its actual purchase. I remember putting on my twirly slip, gliding downstairs, and spinning around the kitchen floor, daring all eyes to observe my splendor. The twirly slip was something like satin on top and layer upon layer of lace on bottom. It reached to my knees and poofed out in dramatic waves of exaltation. Everyone knows that an adorable girl child is twice as adorable when her skirts splay perpendicular to the ground in folds of tulle and velvet. My mom purchased my twirly skirt for me to make me into Shirley Temple; I wore it to watch it spin and to convince all onlookers of what I already knew—I was beautiful.

My dad was an Air Force pilot, and occasionally he went on trips. To appease our disconsolate souls, he always promised my siblings and me a treat when he went away. He brought us gifts from the places he visited, say a fan from Japan or a seashell from Hawaii. On one such trip, I learned that he was going to the Southwest, and I requested a special gift. "Daddy, can you bring me a ring? I just want a ring." He said he would do his best. Two weeks later he returned, and when he brought out my present, I was inconsolably disappointed to unwrap a necklace. I was taught to be grateful for all gifts, and I believe on that day I did not embarrass my parents. I believe I accepted the gift and thanked my dad, but I could not feign excitement.

He said to me, "Emmy, don't you like your necklace?"

I said nothing.

"Oh, that's right, you wanted a ring, didn't you?"

A shrug. "Yes."

"Well, let's see what we can do here. Maybe I can change this necklace into a ring."

He took the necklace from my hands and passed it behind his back. He screwed up his mouth in concentration and focused with remarkable intent. "Now, maybe if I can just...let's see, if I put this here...yes, that should do it."

He pulled the necklace to the front for me to see, and in his hands was a miracle: instead of the bulky necklace, an Emily-sized, delicate, copper ring with a single turquoise mounted in its center. A real ring, a perfect ring, and just for me.

I believed entirely in the enchantment of my father's ruse. Knowing how much I desired a ring just for me, he had transformed the gaudy necklace into the very object of my longing. My daddy loved me, and he was magic.

Back to the slip. When I got my twirly slip, I showed off for my parents. I ran downstairs and spun for them and they oohed satisfactorily and ahhed pleasantly and told me I was the prettiest girl in town. I knew that they were absolutely correct. I was stunning.

Little Sarah knew that she was stunning too. She cried when it came time to remove her fairy outfit and repeated, "I pretty. No, it's my pretty," until my sister's heart broke. Sarah knew, as all little girls do, that her family had delighted in her beauty, that they had admired her, that she was the catch of the town.

In Bossypants, Tina Fey mentions an exercise she participated in with a bunch of other women where they were asked, "When did you first know you were a woman?" Most of the women responded with horror stories of the first time they were hit on by lowlifes. Tina's moment came when she purchased a suit. Mine happened in church when I was sixteen. It was at my first niece's dedication service. My dad had invited his coworkers to attend, and his supervisor had come. His supervisor sat alone among the congregation, so I made a point to talk to her after the service and thank her for supporting our family. I was wearing a green, 3/4 length shirt, a black maxi skirt, and my mom's suede coat from 1970. I remember that, and I have the worst memory. I spoke briefly with my dad's supervisor, she left, and then my dad sought me out and pulled me aside in the pew. "Emmy," he said, "I saw you talking to _____, and I just want you to know that I was struck by what a confident young woman you've become. I looked over at you and I just couldn't believe how poised you were. I'm so proud of you." I knew right at that very moment that I had grown up. I knew it because my daddy told me so.

Sarah twirled in her fairy outfit because her family gloried in her. I spun in my puffy slip because the crowd applauded me. My daddy changed my necklace into a ring because I was special. My dad told me I was poised because I had become so.

It has become politically incorrect to value a father's influence on his child, because so many children have to grow up without a father's influence. This is profoundly sad. Little girls and little boys can be restored through other means and, I believe, by the grace of God, but ideally, for every little one who spins before a mirror, there should be a daddy nearby who tells her she is a gem, she is a treasure. He should let her know what a darling she is through her pigtail phase, her braces disaster, her terrible bangs, her greasy t-zone, and even her training bra embarrassment.

I'm glad to see Sarah spinning in her skirt, and I'm dizzy with joy to see her dad beaming at her as she twirls. I hope that when she leaves the house in sixteen years, she'll have the confidence to reject a slew of idiots who tell her she "looks hot in those pants." I hope that she'll eat a doughnut every now and then. Mostly, I hope that she will know she is beautiful and loved, and it has nothing to do with her fairy outfit.