Was it something I said?

When I was a girl my mother told me this:

“I’m glad my daughters aren’t beautiful.”

(She had four of them.)

“My daughters are interesting and smart and clever instead.”

We were sitting at a stoplight at Stapley and University.

I don’t remember where we were going.

I had heard this in little bits and pieces all my life, but somehow, maybe my age, maybe the stillness of the car, maybe the car itself as holding cell for an unwitting prisoner—this time especially, the words stung.

And penetrated deep into my soul.

My mother was always pointing out who was beautiful; not just pretty, but really beautiful:  My tall, blonde, confident aunt with high cheek bones and deep brown eyes– oh, yes, movie star beautiful; someone in my peer group at church, who was not especially nice to me–  yes, she was beautiful too;  a smattering of beautiful cousins; the whole population of Czech girls—after the return from a humanitarian trip.  The list went on.

Here’s what I knew about myself:  I had a thin long face and I didn’t look good without bangs.

My mother told me so.

(Incidentally, it was seven years and three children into my marriage before I finally threw the “no bangs” rule out the window.  I actually tried my absolute best to never let my husband see me with my bangs pulled off my forehead.  I laugh now.  What wasted energy.)

Like Mother, Like Superhero

I’m delighted to be able to share the parenting wisdom of one of my favorite writers, researcher and social worker Brené Brown, here on Letters to a Parent. If you haven’t found her site yet, set aside some time, click over, and prepare for a treat. This post is especially appropriate this week as we put away our holiday trinkets & relaxed schedules and return to our routines at school, work, and home. Enjoy! {And thanks, Brené!}

* * *

In January, Ellen and I ran into Nordstrom so I could pick up some make-up. While we were there, we decided to check out the sale in the children’s shoe department. I had on my workout clothes and was looking pretty ragged. When we got to the shoe department, there were three moms picking out shoes while their young daughters tried on boots and sneakers. These women were stunning and their daughters were equally beautiful.

As I tried to stay out of the swampland of comparison, I saw a strange blur of jerky movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Ellen. They were playing a pop song in the neighboring children’s department and Ellen was dancing. Or, to be more specific, she was doing the robot.

At the very moment that Ellen looked up and saw me watching her, I saw the magnificent moms and their matching daughters staring right at Ellen. They looked horrified. Ellen froze. Still bent over with her arms in rigid formation, she looked up at me with these eyes that said, “What do I do, Mom?”

I remember thinking, “Break the cycle! Be on her side.”

I grew up with a suffocating fear of not being cool enough and not belonging. I grew up with a gut-wrenching fear of this moment. My default would be to shoot a look at Ellen that said, “Don’t be so uncool.”

I glanced up at the mothers, then I looked at Ellen. I reached down into my courage, as far as I go, and I smiled. “You need to add the scarecrow to your moves.”  I let my wrist and hand dangle from my extended arm, then I pretended to bat my forearm around. Ellen and I stood in the middle of the shoe department and practiced our moves until the song was over.

Back-to-school is always emotional around our house. Today was Ellen’s first day of class and my first day of class. This morning, she walked up to me in the kitchen and looked at me with those same eyes. The eyes that say, “No matter what happens, I believe what you tell me about myself. Can you put your own fears away long enough to make me feel safe? Can you tell me I belong here – no matter what?”

She said, “I’m scared. Are you scared?”  I said yes. Then, I went into my bedroom and got my incredible superhero necklaces. I put one on her and the other on me. I told her, “My friend Andrea says that we are our own superheros. I believe her. Let’s practice that today.”

I was able to snap a picture of Ellen in her superhero necklace, but I had to get in my car to get a picture of my necklace (talking about goofy).

We both did OK today. We’re both tired and emotionally exhausted, but we have just enough energy left to bust-a-move.

Brené Brown is a mom, researcher, writer, activist, wannabe photographer and lover of twinkle-lights (not to mention a former 2-year old beret-wearing free spirit).  She is a member of the research faculty at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work, where she’s taught graduate courses on shame and empathy, global justice and women’s issues for the past ten years. She spent the past eight years studying shame, empathy and vulnerability and how these powerful emotions affect the way we live, love, parent, work and build relationships. You can read more about her work here and on her blog, Ordinary Courage.

Grower’s vision

“Try to see your child as a seed that came in a packet without a label.  Your job is to provide the right environment and nutrients and to pull the weeds. You can’t decide what kind of flower you’ll get or in which season it will bloom”

~Anonymous, as quoted in The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, by Wendy Mogel