daughter

Every week, we'd gather in our family's small living room and watch Dawson's Creek together. And, thankfully, a tradition — and a bond — was formed.

For the past 18 years, my dad and I have run in the local Turkey Trot together. Holiday rituals make it almost impossible to ignore the passage of time.

When I told him that I caught a Mantine, he wrote back, Yeah, I think I caught four or five of them today. I didn’t mind—for the first time in my life, my dad and I were talking without a mediator. He called around Thanksgiving to tell me that a new Pokémon had been added. He checked in again during a special water event in the game and said, Are you catching the fire out of these water Pokémon?

Becoming an adult didn’t magically open me up to their world and their psyche as I thought it would. Even having children of my own did little to unravel the mystery of my parents, because I wasn’t really interested in exploring honestly. I have always been concerned with who my parents were in relation to me, not who they were on their own.

Most days I am confident with how I look and how I feel, but I worry I may never be able to completely banish those thoughts about my flaws and imperfections. I know that every time you catch me focusing on my physical insecurities, you learn a lesson that could hurt you, or force you into this battle I face.

Fortunately, when I look back at my childhood, it was mostly happy. I had parents who loved me. I had plenty of friends. I had access to food and shelter and education and more. Yet even with all my privilege, I don't want my daughter to have the same adolescence as me.

While I appreciate knowing the correct fork for any situation, my mother’s relationship advice can basically be summed up as this: “There are girls who marry and girls who date. You’re a girl who marries.” (In Mom’s defense, I was a late bloomer. Since no one wanted to date me, this advice was also a form of encouragement.) Dad’s advice was a bit more literal and involved an imaginary quarter that should be held between your knees at all times. Seriously, I couldn’t make this up if I tried. So, I’ve compiled a supplemental list of tips for my daughters, more in line with the confident, sex-positive women I want them to be. I intend to shove these inside my hand-me-down copy of Pretty Me because, after all, knowing proper cutlery never hurt anyone.

As a forty-something mom, I rarely shop at Urban Outfitters anymore; I suppose I’ve graduated up to their sister brand, Anthropologie, w