You can tell by her smile and the way she raises one eyebrow that there are things I passed down to her. You can tell by the way she expressively talks with her hands and laughs with her mouth wide open that some of my habits have become hers. You can tell by her size 10 feet or the blonde streaks in her hair. You can tell by the gait in her walk or the sarcasm in her talk. There are a million ways you can tell that she belongs to me, but she’s not my mini-me.
But even with all those traits, habits, and similarities, she is not my mini-me. She is not me. She is her. And my job is to nourish who she chooses to be and not pressure her to be what I want her to be, or better yet, who I wanted to be.
She is not my mini-me. She is not me. She is her.
I cheered for the players, but she took the courts. I wanted to serve the hungry, but she wants to serve the sick. I wanted to stay in place, but she wants to find something fresh.
Sometimes she’s just like me. Other times I have to squint to catch even the slightest glimpse of me in her.
