I am guilty of not looking at myself.
I’m sure I am not the only one who focuses on one thing in the mirror. I’ll look to see if my shirt is making weird lumps under my skirt. I’ll check to see if I have made a big road bump on the top of my head when I pulled my hair back into a pony tail. I’ll study my teeth to see if I got all of the egg out from behind my wires. But I seldom just look.
A few days ago, Wayne and I were hanging out, doing our thing. I was reading a book on my Kindle and working on an afghan I’m making (slowly because I am an idiot when it comes to estimating how much yarn I need and I keep running out). He was doing school work on his computer. We do things like that often; sit in the same place but focus on different things. We interact but we are both fine with not fawning all over each other. Anyway! I must have come to a particularly good part because he said, “You’re beautiful, you know? Even more when you smile.” What a sweet and rather random thing for him to do. I thanked him, smiled more, and went back to what I was doing.
But later, I looked.
I stood in the bathroom and looked. And I’m still a bit amazed at what I saw.
I have my mother’s eyes. They are big and bright, just like hers. I have her cheekbones, hiding under my freckles, and her chin. Her face was my blueprint, and it’s no wonder I am still told how much I resemble her.
I have my father’s nose, in miniature. I have his high forehead. Sorry, Dad, but I am thankful the nose and ears did not come as a set. 🙂
But then I saw more. I saw my daughter’s smile. I had no idea she had my smile. I was guilty of smiling, then stopping, then smiling, again and again, just to see her in me.
I have my son’s inquisitive look. As I checked all of this out, I noticed my head tilting to the side, and there he was. It tamped down a bit on the longing I’ve been feeling to see him, and an equally strong feeling that I need to let him live his life and just let him know I am here.
I know, I was still focusing on pieces. But I stopped and really looked, at the whole of my face. I don’t see myself as beautiful and never will. I was guilty when I was younger in believing in my cuteness, after being told of it many times, but cute and beautiful are much different, and I am too old now to successfully carry off cute. I don’t have a word that I think describes the whole me, except that I am them. It’s more than my face, but I can see it there. I can see my mom and dad, I can see my kids. I am made up of parts of them, and they are beautiful. I think that is enough for me.