Everywhere we go, people tell me how much my daughter looks like me.
“Wow. She’s a dead ringer for you,” I hear at every family get together.
“Man. You’ve got a Mini Me there, don’t you?” I get asked when introducing her to someone for the first time.
“It sure is obvious who her mommy is,” I’m told when dropping her off with someone new at daycare.
And it’s true. She does look a lot like me. Put a picture of me as a toddler next to a picture of her and the similarities are almost creepy.
But it’s hard for me to accept.
It’s no secret on this blog that I have some self esteem issues (to put it mildly). Somewhere in my teenage years I convinced myself I was ugly, and I’ve never quite been able to shake that perception of myself.
But my daughter? Is Cuteness personified. She’s got blue, blue eyes (like mine). A bow-shaped mouth (like mine). Round cheeks (like mine) and a wicked, face-splitting smile (all her own).
She’s short, like me, and runs giggling through the world on the same wide feet that are planted at the ends of my legs.
But while I’ve always despaired of that combination of features in myself, on her they look perfect. She’s perfect. And I want, more than anything, for her to believe that—through all the days of her life.
Which means, of course, that I have to let go of the adolescent insecurities that haunt me and accept that I, like my daughter, am pretty cute.
Tori and I? We have gorgeous blue eyes.
We’re the proud owners of mouths made for laughing.
We stride through the world on powerful legs, and splash through mud puddles on feet made for stomping.
We are beautiful in every single way, just like that Christina Aguilera song says. And I? Wouldn’t have it any other way.