As Seen in the March Edition of Bella Magazine

The other day, I was at Glazed Bisque-It in Roanoke with my daughter Caroline. She was enjoying an infrequent but much-deserved “Mental Health Day” off from school. She’s getting older, so it’s slightly more challenging, not to mention more expensive, to find an activity she’d enjoy. It used to be a container of bubbles or play dough provided hours of magic. Not anymore. Now she’s asking to get a Mocha at Starbucks or go for a pedicure. This day we decided to go paint our own pottery. It’s fun, you get something cool to use, and it’s great mother-daughter bonding time.

Being noontime on Thursday, there were only a few other women there. Actually, the other occupied table held three generations of women..a grandmom, a mom, and a birthday girl, just turned 2. I could not tear my eyes away from the little one. (I’m sure I made her mom nervous). You see, she was the spitting image of my Caroline ten years prior. The spitting image. I felt like I was in both ends of a Time Machine.

Sweet Caroline was an adorable baby. She had a perfectly round face, gigantic blue eyes, and fluffy white-blonde curls. More than once, people would comment, “She doesn’t even look real.” I joked that she was our mail order baby and that we had paid extra for “sleeps through the night” and a premium for “doesn’t fuss, even when wet, hungry or tired.” After having 3 boys, you can’t imagine how much we paid for the girl features! She looked like a living doll and what’s better, she acted like one.

This little girl, Julie, was just that cute. She was well-behaved and simply precious. Can you imagine bringing a two-year old to a pottery store? In a pink fur vest? And letting her paint? (Pam, the owner, was perfectly relaxed and just lovely. She mentioned having eighteen 5-year-olds painting at once. This demure toddler didn’t even make Pam blink.)

To me, inviting a toddler to a room full of breakables and leaving with everything intact is a fantasy. It’s the definition of well-behaved. Her sweet young mom was painting a lovely plaque for Julie’s room. I remember when I used to be that thoughtful. This was before my kids took markers to the walls. Even precious Caroline drew imaginary friends on the walls of her room. Maybe this little Julie won’t get a hold of the Sharpie markers. Her pretty pink room will stay tidy, and on her door in a place of honor will be a sign announcing that the Princess lives here.

On this day, however, Julie was getting hungry, so Mom wasn’t able to finish the princess plaque. She asked if she could come finish it later, saying,“The Princess is a Work in Progress.”

Truer words were never spoken. Wise, wise words. She was referring to the painted piece. I was thinking of the child. Truly, the Princess is a Work in Progress. That day, I saw my princess at age 2 and age 12, and peered at age 22 down the road. You see, it’s not the pottery project that’s a work in progress. It’s the whole Princess.
It takes a lot to raise these little people. Time, patience, cash money and lots of Mental Health Days for both moms and kids. I adored the February issue of Bella, with all the lovely brides and bridesmaids and gorgeous stuff. It looked good enough to eat. How do we get from 2-year-old painting pottery, through the minefield of teen years, to healthy, vibrant bride? It’s a work in progress.

After four children, my fertile friend Amy is contemplating another baby and she said to me, “It’s just another 9 months.” I kept my mouth shut for about 27 seconds, and then I blurted out, “It’s not 9 months. It’s 21 years and half a million dollars!” But even that is a quick summary. After all, it’s easy to have a baby; it’s hard to raise a child. There are no words in our language to communicate parenting. Work in progress is at least a start.

The Princess is a work in progress. Bless you, my little Caroline, turning big Caroline, with poise and intellect. I see little Julie in you, in your glowing cheeks and still clear skin. I see myself in you, when you sit on your bed, writing in a journal like I did thirty years ago. If I squint my eyes, I can see you on your wedding day. I see that you will not only outlive me, you will out succeed me, and I rejoice. You’re a young teen, an age when you still admire me. I know from experience that will change. I turned against my parents, and your brothers have often turned against me. I ask, Caroline, that you hold off your hormones until your brothers are further down the time machine. Then, continue on through. It’s part of the plan….part of the work in progress. For now, whenever you leave me, I call after you, “Make good choices.” And whisper under my breath…“Princess.”


Martie Smith Byrd lives in Roanoke with King Dave, 3 princes and 2 princesses. When not polishing her crown, she is doing laundry, speaking to groups, and writing. Please consider her for a speaking gig at a local organization or church near you! To read more, log on to martiebyrd.com.