She-ro

I’m raising a teenager.  She’s in that sweet spot, tall and thin, turning heads, looking older than her 13 years.  I remember that time, although I wasn’t half as confident. I remember having all of my choices and experiences in front of me, the infinite, incredible, unimaginable future in my unlined hands.  

She doesn’t read fashion magazines (unless I’m done with mine on a long car trip), but she does watch endless Instagram videos of makeup and hair styling techniques.  I hope she looks in the mirror and sees pretty, but I also hope she sees beyond that- smart, confident, kind, and capable.

In the other room, as I look the mirror, I fight constantly with hating the grey hairs that pop up on my head, and the new lines that show I’ve lived and laughed hard.  When I put on my makeup and get dressed up, I still want to see that Vogue magazine ideal Cindy Crawford beauty.  Just because I’m over 40, doesn’t mean I’ve stopped aspiring.  Ugh!  Twenty-five years of reading fashion magazines have done me no favors.  A compliment from my daughter these days is, “That looks pretty good for a mom.” I’ll take it.  It’s better than the typical teenage eye rolls and snarky, “You are really wearing those shoes?” She is judgey, just like me.  I see the Fashion Police commentary scroll across her face.  She will grow out of the meanness.  But when she grows out of the snark, she’ll probably grow out of her size 4 skinny jeans, dewy skin and long flowy hair.  She too will age.

So I’m trying to expand my ideal, love myself with the years I’ve live and the pounds I’ve gained.  Just because the world isn’t kind to middle aged women doesn’t mean that I can’t be kind to myself.  Every experience I’ve had, good and bad, makes me me.  Smart, confident, kind and capable.
 She told me the other day (when I was about to lose it), “Be the person you want your children to be.”  Silenced by my teenage daughter. She’s already inspiring.