By DAWN WEBER
“A lovely baby girl you have there. It’s too bad about that awful birthmark.”
Those are the first and last words I ever hear from your original pediatrician. After she leaves the delivery room, I tell the nurse to keep her away from us, and I cry myself to sleep.
My daughter. Seven pounds, 13 ounces, blonde hair, 21 inches long. To me, you’re perfect.
The day after your birth, I hire a different baby doctor, and unlike her predecessor, she possesses decorum, common sense and bedside manners. She also has plenty of experience. But she doesn’t have an answer for the mark she calls a “strawberry hemangioma.”
“Sometimes, they fade over the years,” she tells me, “and sometimes they don’t.”
We bring you home from the hospital the next day, and amid the bliss, chaos, sleeplessness, confusion and joy that come with a first child, I am steeped in grief. In a world that demands female beauty, I envision your life with a marked, imperfect face.
I pretend to ignore the stares at the grocery store. I grow numb to the questions from little kids.
“What happened to her?”
“What’s wrong with her face?”