Am I Pretty?

I stumbled across Teaching My Girls About Beauty: What I wish I was told as a kid on Babble, and it obviously brought up a lot of my own shit about wanting to shield my daughters from this crazy culture we live in. I want them to feel everything – smart, funny, and yes, beautiful.

My parents were no slouches in the compliments department where intelligence was concerned. I knew that I was smart, and I knew they were proud of how well I did in school. I don’t remember my “beauty” really being discussed at all other than it being something trivial, like liking boys, and that I should focus more on studying. Other people’s beauty was up for grabs, though. I come from a long line of judgers and critics and the family get-together almost always included gossip about someone’s nose or someone’s fat ass or so and so losing or gaining weight. Even if people didn't directly talk about my physicality, I knew enough to know that someone would notice and that someone somewhere would be talking if I got too fat, got a bad haircut, had a pimple or did something with my Scorcese-esque brows. Someone was always trying some new diet or workout regimen so the message, or at least how I interpreted it, was that there was something deeply wrong with being fat or ugly and you should do whatever you could to work against that. So I got caught in the cycle, and my esteem for my physical self has always been for shit.

And then I got pregnant. Pregnancy, along with running, gave me an appreciation for my body that 20+ years of dieting and grooming obsession never could.

And then I ended up with all these girls.

Like the author, I feel overwhelming pressure to “ be the “perfect example.” As recommended by the experts, in that role I wouldn’t do things like criticize the creases at the backs of my thighs (otherwise known as cellulite) or my big (ahem, I mean, larger than average) butt, at least not in front of them. And I would do this all while pursuing my writing dreams as a working woman. All of this, I imagined, would save me from having the self-esteem issues of my girls looming over my consciousness … and perhaps save them from having to endure the unhappiness I once felt.”

Yeah, that’s working out great. I stare at my middle-aged baby pooch in horror while I obsessively moisturize, pluck, tweeze, and spanx myself into some work clothes while snarfing down my breakfast of champions – Cocoa Krispies and coffee. But hey, at least, I’m not SAYING I feel ugly. Good cover.

I know that I can say all the right things and that I can avoid saying the wrong things, but the absolute BEST thing I can do for my girls is to be the kind of girl I want them to be. And like the author, when they ask me if they are beautiful or pretty, I can tell them, “yes, you are, and so much more.”