Pretty in my own eyes

We had family pictures made last week; it was *SO* much fun!  LittleBit and LittleMan are at a the perfect ages to capture who they are.  There are no fake smiles (without laughter), no pretentions, just them — fabulous litte personalities, “grown up” expressions on their faces, opinions and attitudes, loyalties and delights.  It’s just THEM.  And I LOVE it!

Our amazing photographer has begun posting some proofs for us and they have not disappointed — beautiful color treatment, perfect captures of our children’s smiles, ideal settings for our family’s personality.  It’s been a HUGE blessing to see her talent expressing our lives.

Now, I admit that looking at myself — even in such beautiful photographs — has not been easy.  I learned a long time ago that I’m not the “ideal” kind of pretty.  My hair is too dark and my skin too fair; my eyes brown not blue; my style is patently indefinite (though, in my defense, this wasn’t always so).  And now, to add to everything else, my youngest is 5 and I never bothered to lose the “baby weight.” Or the “now married” weight, for that matter. Oh, and there’s this wrinkle between my eyebrows and a few more attempts around my eyes and mouth.

No, looking at those pictures, I cannot deny that neither my face nor my body is what I’d dream it to be. There’s never been a time when I could truly say, “Yes, I am beautiful” by any given standard.

But it’s not the given standards I’m concerned with.

See, there’s my mirror.  And my mirror is my standard.

When I look in my mirror, I don’t see that person in the first few paragraphs.  I see Me.  I see my big, bright eyes, my laughing smile, my bouncy curls, how tall I am and how I carry myself, shoulders back and head up.  I see my BEAUTY.  I see how very, very pretty I am.

That’s nearly illegal, isn’t it?  To say that all I see is my own beauty smacks of narcissistic pride.  But honestly,

IT SHOULDN’T.

It should be totally ok that no matter who wearing what is on the cover of any given magazine, I can look in the mirror and see myself as enough — smart enough, pretty enough, *good* enough.  I should enjoy what I see in my mirror.

And frankly, you should too.

Who said that women should have to shy away compliments — from the ubiquitous, “This old thing?!” or “Oh, I just threw it up in a clip this morning, this is how it just fell out” or my favorite, “NO I am NOT losing, I can’t hardly even get in my jeans!”

Why can’t we just say, “Oh, THANK You!” and that be ok?  Or among each other, especially, why can’t we say, “Girl, thank you!  I thought it looked cute when I pulled it out of the bun!”  and “You are RIGHT! I have been!  I’d like to see chocolate again, but it’s WORTH it to look this good!”

The mirror standard goes far beyond my appearance.  It gets into my attitude and my behavior.  When I look in the mirror, I cannot deny the scowl on my face that my kids have been looking at all morning.  I cannot hide my stomping feet as they step in front of it, nor the inconsiderate opinions reflected in my tone and eyes.

My mirror tells me the truth about the MOST important things about me.  When I look in it, I see who I really am — how I treat people, how I speak to those closest to me, how much hope and faith and love I really have and really give.  Sometimes, I don’t see what I want to see; I don’t see the laughter in my eyes, I don’t see the excitement in my step, or any sign of a smile on my lips.  No, the mirror doesn’t lie.  But that’s why it’s there, to tell the truth.  I don’t want to walk away from it and forget what I’ve seen.  I want to use what I see in that mirror to *change* what needs tossing and to *maintain* what needs keeping.

So yeah, if you ask me, I’m rather pretty.  I feel good about myself and good about my body and good about how I look to other people.  And if it’s prideful to be pretty in my own eyes, that’s the risk I’ll take.  The things most important to me aren’t appearance related.

Jesus loves me, this I know; even my mirror tells me so.

That Kid

I was That Kid’s mom today.  She hardly took her shivering hands out of her pockets as she jogged back and forth with the rest of her soccer team as they chased the ball.   When she could tell she might make contact with the ball, she turned her body away from the fray; when she did make contact, she kicked it the wrong way.  Everyone’s laughing and calling for her not to be afraid of the ball and go after it, to remember that she wasn’t on defense; all good naturedly, mind you.  This is and Upward league, and I am grateful.

And I stood on the sidelines by myself, clutching my camera and praying fervently for God to HELP my sweet daughter DO SOMETHING on the field she would feel great about.  She didn’t fall down and get hurt, to my knowledge no one teased her, she made it to the end of the game.  My prayers were certainly answered, albeit not entirely the way I’d (perhaps selfishly?) hoped.

Earlier this morning, before we’d left the house, she had dissolved in tears; “Mommy, I don’t WANT to go!  I just don’t LIKE soccer!” And I ached for her — there aren’t many things she struggles to “get” but it would seem soccer is one of them.  I reminded her that we had promised her teammates she’d be there and that there was (mercifully) only one game past this morning’s.

She was silent on the ride to the fields, chin in hand, staring with furrowed brow out the window.

I must have gulped back my own tears twice, thinking how we nearly stayed home. I had turned off the alarm around 4am because they’d both woken up coughing in the night and she was just getting over a stomach bug. But the dog woke up whining to go out at 6:30am, and I laughed as I realized that I had just received a Divine Wake-up Call, so I thought I better listen and get them both ready.

And then, running back and forth between fields, trying to catch each child’s time on the field, and seeing my daughter lonely on the bench and befuddled on the grass, I wished the dog had stayed asleep.  It broke my heart.

Of course there will be challenges in life; of course my sweet girl needs to learn that among people who truly care about her and cheer for her every improvement; of course I cannot shield her from doing hard things.  But today, I wanted to walk over to that bench, pick up my child, and rescue her; let her cry a little more because I know how hard it is when you don’t even like soccer and your Daddy’s not there to make it that special Daddy-brand-of-better and Mommy can’t even watch your whole game because you have a brother playing at the exact same time, and you’ve already offered to sit out this game to go see him play, and you’ve offered your coach to let everybody else in and you’ll just sit, but nobody’s listening.

But I didn’t.  And God gave me peace that my encouragements to do the hard thing, to keep going, to trust Him in this, were more important than her comfort.

After what I promise you was an eternity, it was over.  Without realizing, my whole body unclenched and I breathed in deeply.  She went through the teams’ high-five line, then met with her coaches to get her star.  Head cocked sideways, squinting against the moring sun, arms awkwardly full with waterbottle, ball and snack, she began her slow trek back across to me.  I must have met her halfway, and I sqeezed her until she’d dropped nearly everything, and I told her how VERY PROUD I was of how hard she’d worked to keep up with everyone and to stay in the game and to do her best.  She didn’t hear the lump in my throat, and she wriggled to get out of my inordinately long hug.

And she smiled.  “Look, Mommy!  I got two Gold Stars! Hey, Mommy, cheerleading starts soon. I can’t WAIT!”

She had done more than endure, she’d finished well and moved on.  Staying on that field was instructive rather than destructive to her.  She worked those vital James 1 muscles in a show of strength. That’s the best workout, right?

It’s wasn’t easy being That Kid’s mom today.  And it obviously wasn’t easy being That Kid.  But maybe That Kid learned more than sportsmanship and skill on that field today.

Her mother sure did.

My world

My whole life
is in two twin beds
blankets abound
over sleepy heads.
Dinnertime giggles
drown out rain
Blasts of breath
make fog on panes
Miniature fingers
write LOVE on glass
Words fade
LOVE lasts
One day
the beds will go
Small fingers
work and grow
Giggles replaced
by conversations,
car keys, careers,
hesitations
There’s time
for what’s ahead
But tonight
it’s just two twin beds.