Most Beautiful
I watched a round table interview recorded by Soul Pancake and it was about the beauty of women. They asked a question, “When do you feel the most beautiful?” I can’t remember any of the answers by the women on the panel, but I remember mine. I feel most beautiful surrounded by my children, being hugged by little monsters, as I like to call them. (And when I say monsters, I think of the most cuddly cute Monsters Inc., kind of monsters.) I know this sounds cliché, a mother loving to be surrounded by her children, but it’s the honest to goodness truth.
This morning, my son came to my bed because he had a nightmare. And as a parent, you don’t love it when your child is scared or has a nightmare, but can’t help but relish in the “I need you” type of hug and cuddle. My son, who by nature is not very affectionate, curled under my arm, saying, “Mommy, I scared.” And I got to kiss his head, and cradle his three year old body and say, “Don’t worry I’m here.” Meanwhile, I had my sweet five month old in the nook of my other arm. I feel so beautiful. Then later when my six year old came into my king size bed, that I wish was supersized for mornings just like these, she lovingly laid between her brother and dad, and held my hand. I feel the most beautiful.
I used to be most particular about how the Christmas tree was decorated, a perfect balance of ornament to empty branch ratio. I’d stand back and readjust based on “how the tree made me feel.” I was the queen of reorganizing the tree, my sister could attest to that. Never completely satisfied with decorations clearly in the wrong place. “This ornament doesn’t belong here. This one always goes on top. These are too close together.” But this weekend, as my children decorated the tree, I finally took pleasure in clumped together “these are my favorites” ornaments on my artificial tree. An artificial tree because real trees have needles that could be eaten by curious little monsters. I loved to hear the giggles of my children lying under the tree, looking up the plastic branches, as I went around and around with ribbon and beads. My five month old looking at her siblings and finding their ability to crawl under the tree and then back out again to be most entertaining. Then when I was done, we stood together, baby in arm, and admired our masterpiece. My most non-perfect fake tree, clearly my most beautiful.
And as I listen to the footsteps of my son travel swiftly across the upstairs into my bedroom where his baby sister is soundly sleeping, I contemplate how I will have to, for the fifth time, climb up the stairs and this time tell him that staying in bed is now non-negotiable. I’m annoyed. I can feel exhaustion fill me, not ready to have to reason with the unreasonable. Lucky for him and me, I look at the Christmas tree and remember my morning and think about that round table discussion. When I get to his room and find a boy frozen caught by his mom, I sweetly and softly pick him up. I won’t be able to hold him forever. And I give him a hug that he willingly accepts and I kiss him on his cheek. I tuck him in bed. I tell him I love him. He rolls over and tucks his face under his blanket. Before I head on back downstairs, I listen to the gentle breathing of my oldest and look in on my fast asleep pink bundle. My fountains of youth. Because in forty years, when my oldest is 46, my son 43, and my infant 40, and I a spry 75; no matter how gray my hair, or wrinkled my skin, or yellowed my teeth, I will still always feel beautiful when my son kisses my cheek, or my daughter snuggles my arm, or my youngest holds my hand. And most beautiful when they do it all together.