They looked so smug, all three of them.  I took a deep breath and paid attention to how long it took me to exhale, almost long enough for the red that was clouding my vision to dissipate.  I breathed in again, reminding myself where I was and what I was facing…but my chest refused to unwind.

They looked down on me, those girls.  But only because they were on a raised platform of the play structure at the park.  They couldn’t have been more than seven years old and yet I was seething.  I wanted to tell them – something – but there was nothing I could say.  Even though they were being rude to my little girl, I had to be the grown up.  Because I was the grown up.

It was years ago, and those girls were being sassy, but Addie was four and just thrilled that big girls were paying attention to her.  She was too little to understand or even notice that I was agitated and protective.  She was just playing.  But now, oh my, now it’s different.  Now she has to navigate through a thick forest every single day and decipher which flowers are safe and which are poisonous. Every once in a while, she gets stung by a barbed thorn and my little girl curls up in my arms and cries.

What do I do?  What can I do?  I stroke her hair when she is aching and listen when she’s confused.  She is entering tween-dom at ten years old and telling me that she sometimes doesn’t like the way her hair falls or that one of her eyes is not level with the other and that she doesn’t think she has enough friends.  And I hear that voice in my head whispering  your legs are too muscular as I ask my daughter to be nicer to herself.  People get tired of you after awhile, you’re so different the voice hisses as I tell her that she has to actively practice self acceptance before it can become a habit.  I preach and teach and she smiles and says “thank you, Mommy, you’re the best” as she nuzzles into my neck and I try to silence my old insecurities.

It’s our nightly talk, how to manage friendships.  Because I remember the mean girls – and boys – from my own childhood and teenage years.  I remember the things they said, it’s their voices that slither through the tiny cracks in my solid adult confidence.  It still hurts, in it’s own way.  I want her to find the self acceptance that took me thirty years to embrace, but I want her to do it at ten and a half.  So we talk.  I advise.  Stay out of other people’s drama.  Don’t say anything about anyone that you wouldn’t say to their face, because it WILL come back to haunt you.  Don’t gossip, ever. Be thoughtful.  Be aware.  Be cautious.  Be kind, always kind.  Don’t get involved but stand up for others if the situation calls for it…but don’t put yourself in the middle of someone else’s issue.  You may not like the way she acts but it’s not your job to change her.  People who feel good about themselves and like who they are never try to bring other people down.  Let it roll off your back, it has nothing to do with you – you just happened to be the body in the way of her sadness and anger. Some people are just jerks.

Be a light, never a shadow.

I remember that day on the play structure at the park.  Her blonde curls were tied up in a frothy ponytail on top of her head.  Her cheeks were round and soft and pink from playing so hard.  And when those older girls made her the butt of a joke, she laughed with them, that tinkling bell laugh, because she was just a little girl having fun at the park.

I miss that.  Her innocence and blind, pure joy.

She still has some though – the joy.  She sees the good in people and doesn’t let their past actions define who they are.  She reaches out and invites them over to play.  She shows them kindness and they always, every single time, see her for who she is.  Kind and lovely and welcoming.  A friend.  And it is remarkable.

No matter what happens from this moment forward with the flowers and the thorns and the gossip and ever changing friendships, I know one thing for sure: my girl will never be a mean girl.  I will make sure of that.