We often worry about how we look, how we dress, how we appear to other people. Until this afternoon I’ve never really stopped and thought about how I appear to my children.
Abby had just woken from a nap and started to take photos with my smartphone. “Give it back,” I said.
“Please, just let me take a picture of you, Mommy,” she asked. So I let her. She said, “There,” and handed my phone back.
I scrolled through the photographs. There were photos of my shoulder, my ears, my nose, the ceiling, and her fingers. I stopped at the last one, immediately beginning to assess it in my head. Ugh, no makeup, my hair dried funny when I took a nap, geez my pores look huge…
But then it struck me. She doesn’t see the blemishes, the fine lines, the dark circles, or any of the “imperfections” that I see. She just sees me.
“What do you see when you look at that picture?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I see a mommy,” she replies with a smile.
She sees the lips that kiss all her ouchies, the ears that she has rubbed for comfort ever since she was a nursing baby (though not so often now), the eyes that look on her with unconditional love.
In the years ahead, the face will change, the mood displayed on it may vary, but the love behind it all will not.
“I see a mommy,” she’d said. That’s good enough for me.