Like many of us, I’ve got a complicated relationship with aesthetics. On the one hand, they’re kind of everything to me. On the other, I sorta hate that. Except, if I’m honest, I don’t hate it because I care about them. I like pretty things. I like beauty. In fact, I love it. Don’t most of us?
Well, maybe. But maybe not. I spend an obnoxious amount of time thinking about art. Houses, which are art. Movies, which are art. Music? Obviously art. Wallpaper? Art. Food. Art-adjacent. Flowers? Art. Furniture? Clearly art. Lines and dots and splotches? Art.
And I think a lot about my daughter’s unfairly gorgeous face. I’ve spent an insane number of hours staring into that face and thinking about what it means to me and to those who know her. And I’ve wondered what others who don’t love her like I do see in that face. I’ll never know, of course, because I can’t unknow a mother’s love and obsession, but I can speculate.
Molly told me this week that she’s ugly. When I responded–in awe–that it was crazy that she could think such a thing, she told me that I had to tell her that because I’m her mom. I knew where she was coming from, but I tried to assure her that it’s not possible for me to lie about beauty because, frankly, it’s not. And she is–for better or worse–the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I truly don’t know how she does it. She’s so funny and smart and kind and weird. And ridiculously beautiful and interesting. For a long time, I thought I wasn’t supposed to say that aloud. To her or to anyone. But that’s ridiculous. Saying it aloud doesn’t make me conceited or diminish her charm. It just acknowledges what I know: she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
life and puppies 