“She is just, so, pretty.” I have heard some women say that
they die inside every time they hear someone call their daughter pretty. I must
be missing the point; I do that a lot, because I don’t get it.
All of my friends are pretty. Not because they grace
magazine covers or win pageants. Not because they are envied by all other women
at Pilates. Not even because they can sing to animals and make them respond
back. My friends are pretty because of the way I feel when I see them. The way
my heart becomes a little lighter and my eyes grow a little wider with the
knowledge this person is in my life and is good to me.
My daughter is pretty. It runs in my family. My mother, my
sisters… all pretty. I am even pretty because I can see in their eyes that the
same beautiful way I feel about them, they feel about me, too.
Pretty does not negate the other fine, or not so fine,
qualities of the women in my life. Intelligent, creative, bossy, sweet, controlling,
loud, shy, vain, giving… They are a part
of every human. My hope is that my daughter will have a heavy heaping of
whatever makes her happy and a good person. And of course, I hope that she will
always remain pretty.
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