Mirrors

My daughter loves to watch herself in the mirror. Sometimes, when she cries, she forgets all about whatever injustice she has endured and runs to the mirror to watch the tears run down her cheeks. She dips her tongue in them dramatically as they approach her mouth. Or, if she hasn't made it to a mirror, she hangs her head so they fall to the couch or the blanket, then touches the small puddle, admiring her work.

She always loved the mirror, but became intimate with it in the car. She has one of those mirrors that attach to the back of the seat in front of her. I have seen her talking, practicing expressions, admiring angles, singing, and, of course, watching herself as she cries. She used try to include me, but since the moped accident, and the time I had to slam my brakes on a little too hard to avoid crashing the rental van, when she sees me watching her in the mirror she will say, "Mommy, you better keep your eyes on the road so you don't crash." "The moped crashed into me!" I say, but she doesn't hear it.

Anyway, I still steal glances in the rear-view mirror and, like every woman, steal glances at myself. I am struck that my glances are not as admiring as hers. Now and again I might think, "I look pretty good." Most of the time, though, I"m wondering if I'm getting jowels yet, or how my eyebrows are getting lower, or the crows feet more pronounced. I'm irritated by the sudden wrinkling around my upper lip, which I avoided, despite heavy smoking into my thirties, for so long. If injections didn't look so painful, and weren't so pointless, I might endure them.

But I find myself wondering when it starts, if there is any way to avoid it, and know there is not. I watch Kaikea admire how her purple leopard leggings go with her red poka-dotted doggie shirt. She doesn't wonder if her butt looks good in them. She watches the hair fall into her face and declares with glee "I have enough hair for the ladybug barrettes!" She doesn't think it is too fine, or too dark, or too blonde, or that her haircut doesn't flatter her face. Perhaps she will find a way to cherish those feelings as they pass across her beautiful face, flashing in the mirror, the tattoos of girlhood--envy, invalidation, heartache, longing--and admire her work.