By Kristina Hammer of The Angrivated Mom
People say it all the time to me: “Wow! Your children look just like you.” Especially with my daughters. I always look at those people as if they are the off-the deep-end-head-first kind of crazy.
Sure, I mean, I do notice some small resemblances since they were created from half of my DNA and all. But they cannot look exactly like me. They just cannot. They have one smokin’ hot dad, you know. He gave forth part of his DNA as well, so I can focus on their resemblances to him, which overshadow their resemblances to me.
The truth of the matter here is, it is not that I don’t want them to, but that I can’t let myself. I absolutely refuse to see how my looks even begin to compare with my daughters’.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I am both blind and biased. There certainly are no rose-colored lenses to correct my distorted vision, either. My view is askew with the many layers which make the whole of me. The me only others can see. The reflection staring back at me merely resonates the outer shell in which my soul, my mind, and my presence are bound.
My inner-self, sadly, is disconnected from my outer-self. They do not see each other as one and the same.
It is easy to look within my heart and soul and see all the good they have to offer. I am gentle and nurturing to my inner voice. Yet I am critical and contrite with what is on the outside.
I see all that is wrong with my appearance before I see what is right. I zero in on the blemishes and disillusionments of my physical appearance, unable to see the sparkle radiating within. I pick apart my physical traits with great vehemence, disproving my worth and value as a human being. The connection between what I see looking back at me in the mirror and the plethora of beauty within me is lost in transit.
However, when I look at my girls, I see all of them looking back at me. I see them from the inside out in entirety. Their inner beauty shines brightly through them. It bubbles to the surface like a golden, sparkling, champagne supernova bursting through the atmosphere with dazzling wonderment, which only enhances their already naturally good looks. They are perfect in every way, like a warm summer breeze.
Since children typically wear their hearts on their sleeves, it is no wonder my daughters’ reflections show more than just their outer shell. Unlike me, my daughters’ layers are as plain as day for all to see. Still within the great interim of innocence, they have yet to place any walls around their hearts for protection. They are an open book. A true to life fairy tale romance about a young girl’s purity and her love of life…for living…which captures her evanescent inculpability and tells of her blossoming maturity. It is seemingly impossible to only see the physical reflection of my girls, especially when their flawless personalities are larger than life.
This difference in visionary perspective is why it is so hard for me to admit my children do, in fact, look like me in some ways. I don’t want them to be like me. Not in the least bit.
I don’t want them to share my failures, my imperfections, and my boarded-up heart. I don’t want to see them as just the good or just the bad because I’ve disconnected their identities from their bodies. The only thing I want to envision as I gaze upon my daughters are their dreams, untapped potential, unabashed splendor, and graceful charm. All the unspoiled beauty and richness of their unscathed, free-spirited personalities.
My daughters are worth so much more than what is merely showing on the outside. Deep down, their true beauty shines bright and effervescent. Their slates are unadulterated and their tiaras untarnished. Inside, my own inner beauty has become tainted with the sins of my past, and outside, my crown has long since tarnished, stashed on a forgotten shelf in my linen closet. And there it shall remain until the end of time, because my time to shine has long since passed. My daughters’ time, however, has come to light.
I will never allow myself to admit the fact that they look so much like me, more so than their baby-faced dad. If I did, I would only dim their spotlight with the shadow of my own ugly. So when you compliment me on the street or in the grocery line, don’t be surprised when I reply, “Nah, they are much too beautiful to look like anything like their Momma.”
Because they are.
*****
About the Author
Kristina is The Angrivated Mom of four kids who drive her to insanity and beyond on a daily basis. They’ve turned her house into a zoo full of pets and the challenge if keeping it all running is daunting. She is a writer by nature and poet by heart, but only a blogger by nurture. You can find her ramblings at The Angrivated Mom or on Facebook, at The Daily Rantings Of An Angrivated Mom.