If I should have a daughter, she will know me as “the tickle monster,” as “Queen Mommy” and as “best friend,” because I’m a firm believer in spending as much time as possible playing with your kids. I will give her a paint set and let her run amuck across the bare walls because unstifled creativity is worth repainting every now and again. She is going to learn how to stand up for herself, chest out, chin held high, but only after she learns how to fall down on the cold concrete and regroup without a Band-Aid. She is going to learn to love her scars, both visible and on her fragile heart, because they are a connect the dot map of her past and the recipe of events that make her who she is.

There is pain and suffering in this world, and not all of it can be solved with a hug and a shoulder to cry on, but it helps. So when she finally looks under her bed and realizes that the monsters have escaped and take the form of people, I’ll teach her how to defeat those monsters one by one. Because no matter how many dragons you slay to save your little princess, there will always be one more in the kingdom next door ready to huff and puff and blow you away. She will know how to escape her tower without a man on a white horse coming to save her.

“Oh sweetie,” I’ll whisper, as I wipe away her tears, “there’s a big, bright, beautiful world out there calling your name. And I know right now your world is caving in, but I’ll be the pillar that holds it up long enough for you to escape.”

She will understand that every book she opens will have a final chapter and that closing the book only means that she has another on the shelf waiting to be opened. And I know she’ll never understand that her momma knows best, just like I will never understand that sometimes she’s right. But we’ll make it through. I’ll always keep a pack of tissues in my pocket, a good joke on my tongue, and a picture of us in my wallet, because when her teenage years come crashing in, I’ll need them more than she does.

I don’t want her to merely look at the world, I want her to experience it. I want her to climb to the tallest mountains, swim in the deepest oceans, see the sunset on the beach and the sunrise in the forest. I will give her her first camera at an early age, but she will know not to delete anything, because that hideous picture from Friday night is a memory she will forget by the time she’s my age.

I’ll teach her how to say thank you for the days that make her wish she didn’t wake up that morning; those days are the ones that have their beauty hidden. She will know that just because she doesn’t say the “Hail Mary,” God is still listening and still loves her. She will be the light on the darkest days, the hope in the most desperate times, and the smile in the crowd when the world is frowning.

But when she comes running back to me, shaking drops of Jupiter out of her hair, bruised and beaten by the monsters from under the bed, scarred by her adventures, out of tissues and out of tears, I’ll smile and kiss her and send her back on her way. In a world filled with boundless opportunities blocked by people shoving hatred and heartache down our throats, my daughter will be able to trudge through and emerge from the cogs of society, the ones trying to pound away the magnificent light illuminating from her soul, brighter than ever.

And when people stop in amazement and wonder how such a delicate beauty could survive in this cruel world, I’ll go up and shake their hand and say, “Hello, I’m her mother.”