PRETTY.

Psyche: Mommy? Am I pretty? Can you put make-up on me so I can be pretty?
Me: I can pretend to put make-up on you. *commences in putting "invisible make-up" on*
Psyche: *bats eyes and caresses face* Am I pretty now Mom?
Me: Of course you are... but you know what'll make you even prettier? If you're smart and you do your lessons in school... and if you're kind and if you have a good heart. Like Cinderella. Then you'll be really beautiful.
Psyche: Ok Mom, I'll do my school and I'll be a good girl...
Me: And... you gotta eat your vegetables and you gotta eat a lot and sleep early so your hair will grow long and you'll be even more beautiful.

(I might as well throw that in there before she's smart enough to realize that last part isn't necessarily true.)

... this is not about me! This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those two pretty syllables.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? , ” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no.

The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing, but you will never be merely “pretty.” --- Katie Makkai


....

“Proof that you can be adored by thousands of men even when your thighs touch.” - Miley C. defending her weight using a picture of the "size 16" Marilyn Monroe.

                                      When did this stop being the standard of beauty???

And even though I have to constantly remind myself to be strong and secure in order to be an example for my own daughter so she doesn't grow up too involved in how she looks... I can't help but feel guilty sometimes for not being as disciplined, for missing the gym (like this past week, UGH), for having that extra scoop of rice, for checking the scale at least once a week. But then I see Marilyn and that gut and I think "I'd rather have icecream and eat cheetos with Psyche than slave at the gym ANY DAY." (Ok ok, on some days --who am I kidding?--... while she goes to the playground. =)

Psyche tells me I'm sexy all the time. And it's funny now... but her saying it just seems so much more flattering than all the other guys who've called me sexy in my lifetime.