A quick glance at the beautiful bodies and flawless faces that filled the other pages of the magazine, however, soon convinced me that I do not have it. And, at this point in my life, I probably never will.
When I was younger, I used to look forward to what I thought would be my “glory years,” a magical span of time I figured would fall somewhere between acne and wrinkles when I would look and feel my best at all times. I recalled my “glory years” theory recently and came to the alarming realization that if I had any “glory years” at all, I likely missed them. I suppose I was too busy scrubbing bathtubs, enforcing naptimes, and wiping runny noses to notice just how gorgeous I was.
It is out of necessity that most moms abandon their dreams of glamour and sophistication. One day a few months after our sixth child was born, I piled the kids into the van for an afternoon of errands. I went to three different stores, chatted with clerks and customers, and even ran into a couple of acquaintances before returning home and discovering that I had white dribbles of dried baby spit-up in my hair and a tell-tale trickle down the back of my shirt.
If incidents like this weren’t enough to squash my girlish inclination toward vanity, my recent experiences with a mysterious allergic reaction closed the deal. It’s hard to be overly proud of your physical appearance when your eyes are subject to turning blood red and swelling shut at a moment’s notice. On the bright side, I noted that laugh lines are considerably less noticeable when one’s eyelids are inflamed. A doctor confirmed that I was reacting to the family dog and about a thousand other environmental allergens. Medication is helpful but I still suffer through a couple of decidedly “un-photogenic” seasons each year.
Most of us know that God doesn’t want us to be overly concerned with our physical appearances, but the desire to maintain youth and beauty remains a tricky and emotional issue, particularly for women. I am blessed to know many lovely, talented, and holy women. Nearly every woman I have ever known on a personal level, however, has at some point expressed dissatisfaction with her physical appearance. It seems that few of us are immune to the temptation to obsess about the size of our thighs, the grayness of our hair, or the sag of our skin, at least on occasion.
It can be hard to remember that inner beauty is our most valuable attribute, but it is helpful to recall someone like Mother Teresa of Calcutta — her inner beauty and love always shone through that wrinkled face and shrunken body. In fact, I have often found that the perfect antidote to compulsive self-criticism lies in embracing the motherly role I so often blame for having missed my “glory years” in the first place.
One recent Sunday morning, by some kind of accident, I actually managed to spend 10 uninterrupted minutes in the bathroom getting ready for Mass. I got dressed, brushed my hair, concealed dark circles, and even put on some lipstick. When I emerged from the bathroom, 4-year-old Juliette, an aspiring princess in her own right, looked me over and gushed, “Oh, Mama! You are just too pretty!”
As I knelt to hug her, I looked over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of my husband beaming in our direction. It was then that I realized: these are my glory years and I am every bit as gorgeous as I need to be.
Danielle Bean is a freelance writer and mother of seven. Her newly-released book is My Cup of Tea: Musings of a Catholic Mom. Read an excerpt, order your copy, and read her daily musings at: www.daniellebean.com.
(This article originally appeared in the National Catholic Register.)
