There's some things I know I'm going to have to tell my daughter as she grows up. Important stuff, like: if a boy calls you 'Princess' he has forgotten your name, and if he's mean to his Mum or has a skinny dog, flee. But the thing that I know I really need to tell her if she's going to do well is this: "You're not THAT special."
I'll feel like I did that day I admitted that all those letters from Starbright the tooth fairy just might have been written by me and I watched a little tinge of something hard slip into her eyes.
I'll feel mean but I promised to tell her the truth - and this is it: "You really aren't that special." I mean, she is to me - and always will be and I know that whether we're going to run with the whole DNA science deal or the religious God thing that the real deep truth is that she is phenomenally special. The problem is, and I'm trying to break this to her the best way I can, the rest of the world probably doesn't think so - or not at least until they get to know her and there's an awful lot of people out there who probably will never bother.
The real truth, in this age of winning certificates for putting your rubbish in the bin, is that she's no more special than anybody else. In the big wide world that she's about to flap her way into with those half-fledged wings and those long gangly legs - I know that she just doesn't figure very highly.
I'm reminded of the grey herons that have nested in the macrocarpa trees at the bottom of our old garden - the ones I waited for every winter to come and tell me there will be a spring and it will have new baby herons in it.
