Beauty

People are starting to say she looks more like me as she gets older. Now we are talking subtle things, like her face taking more of an oval shape, or her eyebrows having a slight arch, and they are probably saying that just to be nice, but I’ll take what I can get. It’s strange how I can sometimes see myself in an expression, the tone of her skin. I looked at her arm once and was struck by how it felt like looking at my own arm; somewhat chubbier, but the bone structure was the same.

The one thing I am most glad she did not get from me are her eyelashes. They are so long it’s a wonder they don’t interfere with her eyes closing. They look fake, like the kind you see in mascara ads. They remind me of feather dusters and pastry brushes.

But she is perfect. I could not have imagined how she would have looked before she was born, but now I can’t imagine her looking any other way. She and I both peer curiously at all the other babies. Boy, they look odd, we think to each other. Perhaps it’s because she’s on the lower percentile of weight for her age that they all look overgrown, with puffy hands and large heads.

But I think parents who think their children are beautiful raise beautiful children. I remember when she was younger, and sometimes quite difficult, thinking that my mother, or one of her aunts, made her more beautiful through their love for and delight in her. She could be crying her head off with a face that resembled a squashed tomato, and they would make her seem like the most precious, adorable thing. This is the privilege that I have for her, and my husband: the ability to shape how they see themselves, and how the world sees them.