As part of my nightly routine, after settling the kids into bed, I retreat to the bathroom. It’s my time to wash away the day’s remnants and to confront the mirror, embracing the realities of turning 40. Instead of criticizing the new lines on my face or the pores that have become more pronounced, I remind myself that this is self-care. It’s about getting acquainted with my reflection rather than lamenting the passage of time. I tidy my brows, swab toner on my neck, and brush my teeth twice.
One evening, as I splashed water on my face, my daughter Lily crept in behind me.
“I just need to blow my nose,” she whispered.
“Sure,” I replied, my voice muffled by the water. As I splashed my face again and reached for the soap, I heard her gentle sniffles behind me. It made me smile, recalling all the moments I had eagerly awaited when she would finally master blowing her own nose. After rinsing, I noticed she was holding the tissue to her face, not to clear her nose, but to conceal her curiosity about my nightly ritual. It dawned on me that she wasn’t just there for the sake of it—she was genuinely interested in what I do each night and what lies ahead for her. I stood up straight, and she smiled shyly at me.
This summer marked a shift in her demeanor, a newfound stillness as she began to seek understanding.
In that bathroom, I felt a bit at a loss as the object of her scrutiny. Dressed in a soft cotton nightgown with delicate straps, I felt vulnerable under her gaze. My past insecurities about my appearance resurfaced, and I grappled with the desire to shield my daughters from the pressures of looking perfect—thinner, prettier, more put-together.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Everything.”
Taking a deep breath, I contemplated how to explain the delicate balance I maintain between unwinding and becoming overwhelmed. “I guess it’s a bit of a treat for myself. It helps me slow down.”
“Why do you want to slow down?”
“Well, you know how I sometimes tell you to hurry and other times say not to rush?” She nodded. “No one really tells me that; I have to remind myself. Coming here at night is like getting a fresh page to write my thoughts or sketch a new picture. I do this to shake off the day’s rush or slow moments,” I smiled. “Or wash it away, so I can go to bed at just the right speed.”
“Yeah, but why does it take you so long?”
She looked up at me, determined to understand, much like her efforts to create that beautiful paper lantern back in Cape Cod.
“Well, I guess it takes me some time. I’m not always the best at letting things go or finding the right rhythm,” I said, shrugging my bare shoulders.
“I think your face looks nice when it’s all shiny and pink after the hot water. And you smell good.” She came over and hugged me, resting her chin on my head, a distance that has noticeably shrunk. After a squeeze, she stepped back. “When you’re done, can you come and rub my forehead until I fall asleep?”
We exchanged smiles.
“Of course, I’ll be right in, okay?” She nodded and tossed her tissue into the trash.
“Oh, and Mom, I really love your nightgown.”
With that, she skipped away, her colorful stripes trailing behind her like ribbons before she vanished through the door. In that moment, I realized that both of us navigate our worlds under a constantly shifting microscope. It may not always provide clarity, but every now and then, it helps us connect the dots and see ourselves—and each other—in a new light.
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