Long before either of us had kids, I was in awe of my friend Tricia Wasbotten Parker. But I’ll admit that it’s her mothering skills I’ve really studied and envied and tried to emulate over the years — skills matched by her talent as a writer.

Trish read the following piece at our annual Mothers Who Write, Mothers Who Read event this past Mother’s Day weekend, and I’m chagrined to admit that I’ve had every intention this summer to get all dozen-plus pieces posted on our website. Hasn’t happened yet. Soon, I promise.

For now, I’m digging into the motherlode to share Trish’s stunning, painful, honest, beautiful piece, “St. Abigail.”

Coming soon: 15-year-old Abbie’s reaction to the piece.

St. Abigail * by Tricia Wasbotten Parker

I am critical of my daughter. When I was pregnant with her, I think I knew that I would be. And I suppose it’s one of the reasons I hoped for another son.

I am critical of Abbie because she chooses Taylor Swift over the Heartless Bastards.

Because she’s not interested in analyzing Lady Gaga as her generation’s Madonna.

Because she reaches for treacly Sarah Dessen novel after Sarah Dessen novel without ever having asked what important books I read at her age, what I might recommend.

Because she expressed genuine interest in trying out for cheer.

Cheer!

Because she spends 30 minutes every morning straightening the waves out of her long hair.

Because if a blonde boy also plays baseball, he is worthy of her attention.

Because she spends hours on Facebook and reading My Life is Average entries.

Because she has Disney princess marathons with her friends and is seemingly unoffended by the archetype of the princess.

I am critical of Abbie because I feared she would be an alien to me – the most frustrating alien of all, one in my selfsame image. My son’s boneheadedness is easy to process – I blame his gender. My daughter’s? A direct reflection of me, of my own failings and weaknesses.

But she hasn’t been a reflection of me. Not really. We’re so different, and not just when it comes to literature.

Abbie is thin and long-legged. Aside from a splattering of tiny freckles across her nose, her skin is smooth and tanned. She has light hair and eyes, long eyelashes, a strong chin, like her dad’s bevy of knockout nieces, but not like me.

Then, this year, Abbie started attending the school where I teach. Suddenly we’re both hearing – constantly – how much we look alike.

For months, my response to “Your daughter looks just like you!” was a consistent “I know…” Pause. “Poor thing.”

I realize it is not unusual for children to resemble their parents. But I also am beginning to realize that our resemblance must be deeper than mere physicality. For all my criticisms of her, Abbie is lovely.

In his poem “St. Francis and the Sow,” Galway Kinnell writes, “sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness.” Yes, in this poem St. Francis is talking to a pig. Fitting, right? My short legs, my thick midsection, my stubby nose? With a few exceptions of the occasionally flattering photo or a fleeting moment of confidence, I have not been able – not since well before puberty – to see myself as lovely. This is not a new story.

But then there’s my beautiful, goofy, free-spirited, wise daughter.

Last fall I sat watching her play in a badminton match. I was having one of those, “That’s my kid!” moments – just feeling full and proud – when an old neighbor sat down next to me. Although he hadn’t seen Abbie in a while, he knew it was her, and I knew what was coming.

“She looks just like you.”

Like me? No – I wasn’t lovely at 15, and I’m not lovely at 41.

Or, wait. Am I?

I have stopped saying “poor thing.” This beautiful alien who I am so critical of and so grateful for?

She is reteaching me my loveliness.