She Makes Me Beautiful

I made a new friend at church on Sunday. At least, I thought she was going to be a new friend. With only four weeks left in this congregation, I felt like it was good of me to even attempt to make new friends at this point. After a few minutes of conversation and finding out that she also has toddlers, a play date was suggested. Realizing I need to make a better effort to put my only child in an arena where she can learn to be sociable, I readily agreed. And then that little phrase snuck in...

"We'll do some facials too!"

Thinking the emphasis was still on the kids can play, I tried to hush my cynical side, but sure enough, when Kevin and I arrived at the play date two days later, not one of this lady's two kids was in sight. There, on the table, however, were those nifty little black trays with attached mirrors, along with a counter full of pink and black tubes and every kind of cosmetic product imaginable.

I tried to shoot an apologetic look at my daughter, but as she didn't know there were supposed to be two cute little boys there to play with her, she didn't seem too disappointed. She alternated between playing with the toys in the living room and coming over to see what was happening to my face. 

At first, she was highly interested. I put a little bit of moisturizer on her cheeks when I'd used all I needed. Later, I pretended to brush some blush on her cheeks and then let her play with the lipstick applicator as the guilt ate me alive inside when I realized I was saying phrases like, "There! You look so pretty!" as if she really needed makeup to enhance her already naturally rosy cheeks and lips or to bring out the blue in her non-photoshoped vibrant eyes. By the end of the makeover, however, Kevin was't curious. She looked disturbed. What had they done with her mommy?

After offering my "I didn't bring my wallet" excuse, (somehow, saying "I just can't afford this stuff"--a nice way of saying "$319 for makeup? Are you out of your mind?!" and "I only wear makeup two days a week anyway" felt too personal) I picked up my daughter and walked out the door. 

And I instantly felt guilty.

I didn't want to buy anything. I know my appearance could use some sharpening up. I know I should be taking better care of my skin. I know my husband would appreciate it if I put in a little more effort to look good for him. But that lead to the thought that he would also not appreciate me spending $15 on mascara that has to be replaced every three months anyway. $60 a year to put organic tar on my eyelashes? No thank you. 

The accountant wife in me felt better.

And then the mom in me felt worse. What was I teaching my daughter, saying that putting some crap on her face somehow makes her prettier? As far as I am concerned, she is the most beautiful person in the whole world.

She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen when she came out purple and wrinkled and covered in blood. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen when her skin turned yellow and her beautiful face was covered by a mask as she sat under biliruben lights day after day. She was beautiful when she wore a nasal cannula and she was beautiful after she got to take it off and I saw just how chubby her cheeks really were. She was beautiful even when all of her hair fell out at five months and it took three months for it to grow back in. She was beautiful when she had no teeth and she is beautiful now that she has twelve.She was beautiful when she only had two thin little pigtails on the top of her head and now that she has two thick pigtails that sit right above her ears. She is beautiful when she cries and even more beautiful when she laughs. 

To quote Bruno Mars, "she's beautiful, and I tell her every day."

It kills me to think that someday she might not believe me about this. 

When I was a little girl, I took dance for several years until I noticed I was the biggest (in my head fattest) girl on stage and then I quit at the tender age of nine. I still appreciate the lessons I learned from taking dance, however. I still use those skills on a daily basis as my daughter and I dance together often in the kitchen, or bedroom, or living room, or in the car, or wherever we can manage it. I remember the beautiful leotards and tutus and the opportunities those costumes gave my mother to teach me about modesty. 

And as I left the playdate turned sales pitch the other day, I heard my mother's voice when I asked her why I couldn't wear make up for the recital like all the other girls in my class did. I thought they looked so pretty with the stunning blue eyeshadow and the vibrant pink lipstick and the sparkles on their cheeks. My mom would just smile and say, "You don't need makeup to make you pretty. You are already beautiful without it."

I thought it was an excuse. I knew she didn't want me to wear makeup because she thought I was too young. 

Now I know she wasn't lying. 

She really believed--and still does--that I am beautiful. She thought I was beautiful when I was born 16 days late and the doctor declared me "overdone." She thought I was beautiful when I had the fattest, chubbiest cheeks and thighs and the pediatrician told my parents that I would be obese. She thought I was beautiful when I insisted on wearing my hair in two long braids just because that's the way my doll Molly had her hair done. She thought I was beautiful when in the fourth grade I told her I wanted to cut all my gorgeous hair off (and she let me do it, even though my dad protested and she cried). She thought I was beautiful when I started getting zits and wore braces. She thought I was beautiful when I had to get glasses and I thought my life was over. She thought I was beautiful even when I didn't get asked to homecoming. She thought I was beautiful when I grew my hair out and cut it off two more times to donate it to Locks of Love. She thought I was beautiful when I attended my first day of college and she even found me beautiful when I went home every weekend, disappointed because I'd gone another week dateless yet again. She found me beautiful when I sat crying in a hospital bed, 32 weeks pregnant and scared out of my mind about what was going to happen to my daughter.

And, as often comes with motherhood, now I understand why my mother thought and did and said the things she did. To her, I truly was beautiful. I still am.

Funny thing, though, is that when I try to tell my mom how pretty she is, she doesn't believe me. All she sees are extra pounds and wrinkles and dark circles under her eyes. 

All I see is the way that her brown eyes see the good in people, especially her students. I see the way that her hands stay busy all day long. I feel the strength in her arms as she gives love and hugs to those who need her strength. I admire the way she carries herself with grace and confidence, even when she doesn't feel either of those things. I see who she is. 

She is beautiful.

This week, I realized that perhaps I see in my daughter what my mother sees in me. And I dare to hope that one day my daughter will see in me what I see in my mother.

So for her sake, I am going to stop criticizing my body. After all, it brought me her, and she is worth all the stretch marks and lingering rolls and premature gray hairs. I am going to focus on my positive traits and highlight those. I am going to stop worrying about the makeup I wear, the clothes I don't have, and the way my hair is thinning. Those things don't make me beautiful. 

She does.