Jayci’s nightlight casts a yellow glow on her cheeks as I kick off my flip-flops and lay my coarse curls next to her flaxen tendrils on her pink princess pillowcase. Her eyes close, but flutter open occasionally to make sure I am still present. Her spine curves perfectly into the space I leave; her arms clutch her pink sock monkey whose stuffing escapes from rifts in legs and tail.
I listen as her breathing slows, evens, deepens. My own eyes close and I think about the video I re-posted on facebook earlier: a brilliant one by Dove. My eyes brim a little bit with tears, and my mind swells with hopes that she will always see herself as beautiful. That she will look in the mirror and see what I see: perfect porcelain skin, soft golden hair, brilliantly blue eyes framed by dark lashes and rounded pink cheeks. Button nose.
But then a sudden fear flashes through me. Because what if she grows up and looks more like the picture on the left than the one on the right? What am I saying about beauty and what matters when the whole premise lies in one face being more desirable and, daresay, valuable than the other?
Of course, of course, I always want Jayci to recognize her beauty, to treat herself gently, to love herself with a grace that covers flaws. Because heaven knows I have wasted (and still waste) more than my fair-share of time spent worrying about the extra layer of, ahem, insulation that sits on my midsection since Caden’s birth. Or the new creases in my forehead, and the dark circles under my eyes that speak of too many nights spent tossing and turning on this very princess pillowcase.
But I’m just not sure it’s enough for her to see herself as beautiful when beautiful still means a “thin face” and “pretty blue eyes.” Or when victory lies in a stranger not noticing the lines around her eyes; lines etched by years and laughter, by a life lived.
Somehow, impossibly, I pray instead that she will step outside of the whole construct. That she will believe fiercely in the beauty of her chocolate-skinned friend whose hand entwines with hers on the playground. That she will trace my laugh lines and dark circles and recognize the value in a life lived and fought through well.
That she will find beauty in the pale pink unfurling of cherry blossoms; but also in the dandelion sneaking impossibly through the cracked sidewalks lining our street. In the chippy paint door above our bed: the one whose story is written in layers of white and cream and turquoise. In the toothless old man who grins wide when he rides his bike slowly by our house twice a day, his overalls and cropped blue shirt as unchanging as his smile. In her brother’s rippled scar down his chest, and her “big brother’s” gold patch growing out of his twisted hair. That she will recognize that our dents and scars and wrinkles only add to the beauty of our story, because our pain and stretching widens our capacity for joy and deepens the beauty of our journey.
Jayci’s fingers unfurl from mine, and she relaxes into sleep; and I pray she will relax into life without fearing or bending to the constraints and demands that media and a world try to place on her. That she will be more concerned with being brave and kind, gentle and forgiving, than she is with what she sees in the mirror. That the primary lesson she learns from the Dove video is the importance of extending grace: both to those around her, and to herself. That in a world obsessed with physical beauty, she will stand out as one who sees the loveliness in each person she encounters. One who treats those around her with dignity and grace and love, helping them to see their own beauty with startling clarity and open-eyed joy.
I listen as her breathing slows, evens, deepens. My own eyes close and I think about the video I re-posted on facebook earlier: a brilliant one by Dove. My eyes brim a little bit with tears, and my mind swells with hopes that she will always see herself as beautiful. That she will look in the mirror and see what I see: perfect porcelain skin, soft golden hair, brilliantly blue eyes framed by dark lashes and rounded pink cheeks. Button nose.
But then a sudden fear flashes through me. Because what if she grows up and looks more like the picture on the left than the one on the right? What am I saying about beauty and what matters when the whole premise lies in one face being more desirable and, daresay, valuable than the other?
Of course, of course, I always want Jayci to recognize her beauty, to treat herself gently, to love herself with a grace that covers flaws. Because heaven knows I have wasted (and still waste) more than my fair-share of time spent worrying about the extra layer of, ahem, insulation that sits on my midsection since Caden’s birth. Or the new creases in my forehead, and the dark circles under my eyes that speak of too many nights spent tossing and turning on this very princess pillowcase.
Somehow, impossibly, I pray instead that she will step outside of the whole construct. That she will believe fiercely in the beauty of her chocolate-skinned friend whose hand entwines with hers on the playground. That she will trace my laugh lines and dark circles and recognize the value in a life lived and fought through well.
That she will find beauty in the pale pink unfurling of cherry blossoms; but also in the dandelion sneaking impossibly through the cracked sidewalks lining our street. In the chippy paint door above our bed: the one whose story is written in layers of white and cream and turquoise. In the toothless old man who grins wide when he rides his bike slowly by our house twice a day, his overalls and cropped blue shirt as unchanging as his smile. In her brother’s rippled scar down his chest, and her “big brother’s” gold patch growing out of his twisted hair. That she will recognize that our dents and scars and wrinkles only add to the beauty of our story, because our pain and stretching widens our capacity for joy and deepens the beauty of our journey.
Jayci’s fingers unfurl from mine, and she relaxes into sleep; and I pray she will relax into life without fearing or bending to the constraints and demands that media and a world try to place on her. That she will be more concerned with being brave and kind, gentle and forgiving, than she is with what she sees in the mirror. That the primary lesson she learns from the Dove video is the importance of extending grace: both to those around her, and to herself. That in a world obsessed with physical beauty, she will stand out as one who sees the loveliness in each person she encounters. One who treats those around her with dignity and grace and love, helping them to see their own beauty with startling clarity and open-eyed joy.