Tell your daughter she's pretty

My mom was a babe. A serious babe. When she was 13, she looked like a supermodel. In 8th grade she was voted "best looking" and in high school she was on the homecoming court in spite of being a total hippy that just wanted to smoke "spleefs" and spin pottery. She was beautiful. She still is. But being pretty affected her. It made her wary and distrusting. It made her self conscious and insecure. People don't want to be known for their looks. They want to be smart and have integrity and be looked up to. My mom is all of these things. But I have deduced that when she was younger, people couldn't see them as easily behind her beautiful face. She wanted her daughter to know them.

So she told me I was smart. And she encouraged me to sing. And she let me know she was proud of my grades and my accomplishments. But she never told me I was pretty. My best friend's aunt tells me I'm beautiful every time she sees me. It makes me uncomfortable. It's hard to hear when anyone says it, but especially coming from Aunt Jeri. Last time she told me how pretty I was, she could sense my sheer discomfort and said "didn't your mom tell you all the time growing up that you were gorgeous?" And I'm thinking to myself, "of course not." Maybe I am or maybe I'm not, but the truth is, I'd never know it if I was. When Aunt Jeri said this to me, I had to think about it. Had my mom ever told me I was pretty? One of the most basic things a woman wants to hear — needs to hear really — is that she's beautiful. And I couldn't think of a time in my life when my mom, the most influential woman I know, had ever said it. And it hurt. And it started to make sense.

I've always had low self esteem, even though I've been surrounded in people that love me. And while I'm outgoing and seemingly confident, it's usually countered with layers of self-deprecation. I have always been insanely envious of others and never satisfied with my own successes. I will not blame this on my mother. She did so many things right with me: she taught me humility and loyalty and responsibility and to accept consequences and to be fair and loving. She taught me to be analytical and strong and she taught me to be brave and to find peace despite my pain. But she never told me I was pretty. And I never believed I was. I hated the way I looked. I always felt fat, even when I wasn't. I didn't believe boys would ever like me, so I became defensive and jealous of anyone I thought was prettier than me. My own losing battle started with me hating the way I looked, and then acting tough because I had low self-esteem and then not being very fun to be around. It took me many years, many lost friendships and some later attention from boys and kind words from others, to begin to climb out of my self-loathing hole and start becoming a truly confident woman. But even now, though it can make me uncomfortable, the physical compliments put a spring in my step. That my outfit is great, or that I have a beautiful hair color or that I just look pretty that day.

I know a woman in Portland who has one of the cutest little girls that's ever graced the planet. Everyone tells her how adorable she is. And each time someone tells her this, her mom, being an amazing and smart woman, makes sure to also say: "You know what else you are? You are smart and you are you." It's a wonderful thing to see. But after a few very strong gin and tonics and a couple cigarettes, I finally had to tell Betsy that even though her parenting technique was inspiring, she better make sure she tells her that she's pretty sometimes too. It matters coming from your mom.

I finally asked my mom about it a few months ago. I didn't want to hurt her feelings or make her think I thought she raised me wrong, but I needed to bring it up because I believe it helped shape me. And that is when she told me that she never wanted me to feel like she did when she was young: that people only cared about her looks. That they didn't see her real value.

Aren't we women funny? Nothing anyone can do will make us feel whole. I want to be pretty. But isn't it better that I'm funny and loyal and smart? I know that raising your children is tough, that every word I say to them, especially when they are transforming, will matter.

So I'll tell my daughter she's beautiful. And that she has a wonderful singing voice. And that she is intelligent and a good person. But I'll try to only tell her just enough to keep her humble. And I can't wait to one day show her pictures of her beautiful grandmother in her youth. And maybe someday she'll tell her kids how beautiful I was too.