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.)

My mother is not a wretched woman.

I think in her own way, she meant for that first statement to be a compliment:  “Honey, I am so proud of the brilliant, independent, interesting person you’re becoming.  You are so much more than your beautiful face.”

But somehow, by default of my tender age, I missed that.

And maybe

no one ever told her she was beautiful.

How could I be so hideous (my words, now) and unattractive to the one person in the world who was supposed to love me best?

The explanation: It must be true.

Sometimes, now as an adult, my mother will tell me I look nice.

It’s sad–I think she really might think so; but it’s hard for me to believe it.

My poor husband, he tells me I am beautiful, and tells me all he sees when he looks into my face.  He tells me officially, now he’s “had me” longer than my parents so all those insecurities should be undone.

But scars are scars, and they run deep.

——————————————-

So, in my mothering, maybe I’ve gone overboard in the opposite direction.

I think my children are beautiful, and I tell them every chance I get.

Truly, they are more than likely to hear it at least once a day.

Am I raising delusional, stuck-up children, full of pride and conceit?

(If you knew my children, I think you would say not.)

They have their insecurities and doubts just like everyone else.

Am I raising children who are focused more on looks rather than character, integrity and intelligence?

(If you knew my children, I think you would say not.)

Am I raising children who are disproportionally preoccupied with the way that others see them, rather than how they see themselves?

(If you knew my children, I think you would say not.)

Maybe the key is not comparing their faces to anyone else’s.

It’s not about my favorite color of eyes, or a nose that is just so, or my preference to a particular shape of face, or the wave or texture of their hair.  It’s not about telling them that I think they are more beautiful than their friends.

It’s the smile that melts my heart that is beautiful; the one with the chapped lips and crooked teeth, or the deep dimple right in the middle of their cheek.  I tell them that is beautiful to me.

It’s the twinkle in their eyes as they tell me a funny anecdote; the depth in their eyes as they share a concern; the kindness in their eyes as they help someone and don’t even know I’m watching; the way the light hits their eyes and makes them sparkle like a thousand stars when they tell me about something good that happened to them that day.  I tell them that is beautiful to me.

It’s the way their brow furrows in concentration, or the faraway look of a great ponder, or an amused smile at that really funny part in the book—so absorbed in the reading that they are oblivious to having an audience.  I tell them that is beautiful to me.

It’s the way their eyelashes lay in a shadowy smudge across their cheeks when they close their eyes to pray, or when they’ve fallen asleep.  How that one lock of hair keeps finding its way to a troublesome spot and requires an absent-minded, automatic brush of the hand…

They watch me drink in every last inch of their faces, and they know that I love what I see—because I tell them so.

Sometimes I worry.  Have I told them they are beautiful too much?

Due to circumstances not of our choosing, four years ago, we plucked them up from comfort and familiarity, and set them down in a place that was more than a little prickly and cold, and culturally different from anything they had ever been exposed to.  Welcome to a taste of the refiner’s fire, my babies.

It has been full of challenges, culture shock and loneliness.

But children are incredible.

They survive.

I am so amazed at their strength and courage and resilience.

And if the knowledge that their mama thinks they are beautiful has helped to weather these early thunder storms of life, if the knowledge that their mama thinks they’re beautiful has given them the quiet confidence to get back up when they are pushed down, if the knowledge that their mama thinks they’re beautiful helps them on their journey to discovering who they are and all they can accomplish,

then I’m happy to have given it.

And I’m glad it was something I said.

Jenny lives on the east coast with her husband and five terrific kids. Her children say: “she cooks good food, and takes too many pictures.” She likes to eat food that other people cook (preferably, people in restaurants), take pictures, write, shop, spend time with family and to be on vacation. She can be reached at jenny.mom2five@gmail.com.