By FELICITY LENEHAN
I just read that I am no longer allowed to call my daughter beautiful, because it’s forming the opinion in her head that beautiful looking is what matters. That she has to retain the flawless face of her three year old self, aim for the figure of Miranda Kerr (which she has never had and never will have, my yummy little stocky girl), be scarred by terrible eating disorders, failed romantic encounters, the whole frightening shebang. I’m petrified of all this stuff for my daughter.
In the same week I’ve also read I’m not allowed to call her a “good girl”, because it perpetuates the glass ceiling. It stifles her want to be dominant, a risk taker, and all those other things that being a leader requires. It says she has to remain bound by 18th century corseted social rules – sit in the corner and read your Jane Austen you, you, female you!
I understand this theory, I really do, and believe me, I’m the last person who wants to damage my children’s self esteem.
But it is very hard for me not to say these things because, well, my daughter is beautiful. Stunning. Everyone tells me thus. She has huge, summer-sky blue eyes, framed by long dark lashes, a button nose, ruby red cherub lips, and the most amazing curly hair. Me, of the limp, permed-three-times-in-a-week-and-still-poker-straight variety, has aimed for this kind of hair all my life. And I’ve made it on my daughters head. And now – I can’t believe it – I’m not allowed to call it beautiful!