Beautiful eyes

There is nothing more beautiful on earth than my daughter. And I would like to say that is true objectively, and know that this is an immovable truth that I have found for all time.

But there is no such thing as objective beauty, is there? It is all in the eye of the beholder.

Other people tell me she is beautiful sometimes. She doesn’t seem concerned about it. But I am flattered to have a fellow admirer of her eyes, and her little hands and legs and skin and all-over body.

One of the side effects of having a daughter is that she looks like me. A little. I think she has my eyes. She definitely has my legs. Her little legs, perfect legs straight and strong, and they are kinda mine.

Stupid women’s magazines will make disparaging comments about thighs that rub together–presumably because they are too fat–and I have always felt like that was a flaw that I should find a way to correct. The inside seams of my jeans rub and wear out first. Obviously it’s something wrong with me.

But Veronica’s perfect body has strong thighs that meet all the way down to her knees.

Like mine.

Maybe those magazines are wrong. Because she is undeniably perfect and beautiful. Never a doubt.

I do enjoy the beautiful. I have an art print in my dressing area. La Toilette

Isn’t she pretty? It’s nice to have her there as I get ready for my day and try to make myself presentable.

Veronica noticed her one day. She pointed and said “It’s mommy.”

Well. Perhaps she is a mommy. That’s also nice to think about.

“No. It’s you mommy.”

“That’s not me. It’s somebody’s mommy, but that’s not me.”

She is too beautiful to be me. If I were to sit like that there would be so ┬ámany flaws, I would not…I just couldn’t..

“It’s you mommy!” Veronica wasn’t giving it up. SHe insisted that the beautiful woman in the drawing was me.

I guess to her, I am that beautiful. For her, the flaws are not even visible or possible.

Maybe the magazines are wrong. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

And love makes everything beautiful.


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