Growing up, I never thought much of my looks - and no one else seemed to either, except maybe my mom. I stopped growing early, a few inches shy of five feet; I was small all over, actually. But I wore big glasses (which helped hide my somewhat lazy, inward-drifting eyes), and had naturally big hair long before girls spent the ‘80’s trying to achieve it. My mother would tell me I had “good bone structure,” which is nowhere near the same thing as being told that you’re “pretty.”
To sum up, I’ve always been very aware of my imperfections, and the ways in which I’m out of compliance with the beauty standard. But I’ve literally seen myself a bit differently since I became a mother.
Of course, we all think our babies are beautiful, but mine made people stop to look at him. A well-shaped face (good bone structure?), curly brown hair, big brown eyes with long lashes (it’s always the boys who get those) - I never got tired of hearing “Such a beautiful baby!” What surprised me was when his admirers would turn to me and say “He looks just like you!”
He didn’t, actually, and he doesn’t now; he’s a pretty good blend of his father and me, and as he’s gotten older he’s come to resemble his dad more than he used to. But he has my coloring (and hair), and I think that’s where people saw the likeness. In any case, hearing that this gorgeous child looked like me made me re-assess myself, and my new verdict was gentler and more favorable.
That baby has grown into a handsome young man, and I can see where some of that comes from when I look in the mirror. But I also see my mother, and her mother as well; I’m named for my grandmother, who died much too young, and during the years I wore my hair short I looked just like her portraits from the early 1930’s. I have the eyes from her branch of the family (the color, at least; the myopia and astigmatism are all mine), and the smile. (Eventually I accepted that my mom was right about the smile - it is my best feature.)
Closer to fifty than to forty now, I’ve learned some lessons about inner beauty - developing it, and drawing on it to shape what shows on the outside. It’s been difficult sometimes, and it hasn’t changed the ways in which I’m still aware of the ways I don’t comply with the beauty standard. I’m no longer small all over; I’ve never gotten any taller, and my weight’s been more up than down during the last ten or fifteen years, but I’ve grown to appreciate the curves it’s given me. My still-big, still-brown hair is sprouting grays. The good bone structure is less apparent under a rounder face (but the skin on that face is one thing that has improved with time, thanks to a good maintenance routine). But my opinion of it all is a bit higher, and more forgiving, than it was then...and it started with seeing what others saw when they saw me with my child.
To sum up, I’ve always been very aware of my imperfections, and the ways in which I’m out of compliance with the beauty standard. But I’ve literally seen myself a bit differently since I became a mother.
Of course, we all think our babies are beautiful, but mine made people stop to look at him. A well-shaped face (good bone structure?), curly brown hair, big brown eyes with long lashes (it’s always the boys who get those) - I never got tired of hearing “Such a beautiful baby!” What surprised me was when his admirers would turn to me and say “He looks just like you!”
He didn’t, actually, and he doesn’t now; he’s a pretty good blend of his father and me, and as he’s gotten older he’s come to resemble his dad more than he used to. But he has my coloring (and hair), and I think that’s where people saw the likeness. In any case, hearing that this gorgeous child looked like me made me re-assess myself, and my new verdict was gentler and more favorable.
That baby has grown into a handsome young man, and I can see where some of that comes from when I look in the mirror. But I also see my mother, and her mother as well; I’m named for my grandmother, who died much too young, and during the years I wore my hair short I looked just like her portraits from the early 1930’s. I have the eyes from her branch of the family (the color, at least; the myopia and astigmatism are all mine), and the smile. (Eventually I accepted that my mom was right about the smile - it is my best feature.)
Closer to fifty than to forty now, I’ve learned some lessons about inner beauty - developing it, and drawing on it to shape what shows on the outside. It’s been difficult sometimes, and it hasn’t changed the ways in which I’m still aware of the ways I don’t comply with the beauty standard. I’m no longer small all over; I’ve never gotten any taller, and my weight’s been more up than down during the last ten or fifteen years, but I’ve grown to appreciate the curves it’s given me. My still-big, still-brown hair is sprouting grays. The good bone structure is less apparent under a rounder face (but the skin on that face is one thing that has improved with time, thanks to a good maintenance routine). But my opinion of it all is a bit higher, and more forgiving, than it was then...and it started with seeing what others saw when they saw me with my child.
BlogHer has launched Own Your Beauty, a year-long initiative aimed at changing the conversation about what authentic beauty means. Each month focuses on a theme; this month’s is imperfection, which is what inspired this post.
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