“Is that your daughter?” A woman asks as I stand talking to an acquaintance I have not seen in over a year. The Diva is no where near as she does her energizer bunny thing and is watched by a friend of mine visiting from the west coast.
I smile and confirm her suspicion.
“She looks just like you.”
I hear this from time to time. My daughter looks nothing like me in my opinion. She might have my smile now and again but to me, she looks much more like her dad. Actually, she looks like a cousin of mine I have never met I am told. She is just her own little person.
My daughter has a striking look. She is light olive and a golden blond with a dancer’s physique. She is bones and angles and muscles and nothing else. Energy sparkles in the air around her.
Through the eyes of motherhood and the eyes of a stranger, I see that my daughter is beautiful.
And yet she looks like me.
Does that mean I am beautiful too?
Why do I have trouble seeing my own beauty when I can see it so plainly in her?