Vanity

I have never thought of myself as a particularly attractive person.  Actually, I have spent the majority of my life convinced that I lean toward the goofy-looking side of things.  My first-born child, on the other hand, is beautiful.  Let's just admit it.  He was even pretty decent-looking as a newborn.  And, come on, people, newborns generally look more like overcooked peas than anything else.

Asher's birth taught me something:  I am vain.  I thoroughly enjoyed being the possessor of a beautiful child.  I loved looking at him.  I loved dressing him.  I loved taking his picture.  He was like a little work of art.

And you could tell me that he was just average-looking if you liked.  It wouldn't make any difference.  I was totally convinced that he was gorgeous.  

When Asher was one, he fell and cut his forehead on an open drawer.  Hugh thought I was being a silly girl leaving a bandaid on the cut for days.  I caved and took the bandaid off.  Within seconds, Asher had rubbed the scab off, and, of course, he got a scar.  (You can see the little dent in his forehead in the picture below... or at least I can.  Unfortunately Asher's scar is not shaped like lightning.)

It took me years to get over it.  And I didn't even realize that I had gotten over it until this week, when thoughts of Asher's ruined beauty were brought back to the surface.  Because Asher managed to fall and knock one of his teeth out.  Yes, that's what I said.  My beautiful, beautiful child knocked one of his teeth out!! 

And, of course, I was sad for my poor little boy who got hurt.  And I rushed him to the dentist, and said comforting things, and bought him ice-cream, and fed him ibuprofen, and put money under his pillow.  But I was also in mourning over my wounded vanity, and over the loss of all those beautiful smiles that might have been.