Beautiful

When I was young, I used to watch my mom, my Nana, and my Lola (great grandmother, in this case) put on cold creams and moisturizers. I soaked in their smells and watched their rituals with great wonder. Something about the whole process—the smells, the movements, the soft sounds—has always made me feel sleepy and warm and safe. 

I am now old enough to (legitimately) worry about wrinkles. (And white hair. And an aching back. And wearing sensible shoes. And...) I've recently just established some sort of pattern that can now be called an actual skin regimen. Late to the party, but hurrah-hurrah.

Lucia watches me now, as I moisturize the heck out of my body in the hopes of getting rid of all the bad choices I've made. (Heh.) She now knows what bottle I reach for, how much moisturizer I put in my hand, even how long I massage my face. "Let me, Mommy!" as she hands over the toner. "I'll shake it, Mommy!" as she gives me the moisturizer. "I like this blue!" as she gives me my tub of Nivea cream. (Aside: This one is straight out of my childhood—all three aforementioned ladies used this, too).

I was running my fingers through my wet hair and she helped me with the tangles. Suddenly, she rested her face on my belly and said, "Your tummy is soft and your face is soft. Like me! You're so beautiful, Mommy. Am I beautiful, too?"

"Yes, my love. More beautiful than anything I've seen."

"I love you, Mommy. Do you love me, too?"

"More than anything now, then, or ever will be."

"I love our bellies, Mommy. We're so soft and beautiful."

Oh, my darling. I suppose I love my belly now, too. (Your soft belly, however, I love most absolutely.)

Some day, the world will tell you that you have to look a certain way to be pretty, my love. And it won't look anything like Mommy. But always remember this moment. You and I, we are beautiful. We are loved. Our love makes us beautiful.