Today is the fourth or fifth day in a row of absolutely perfect weather. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, temperatures hovering in the mid-70's, light breeze. Northfield appears to be a bustling, idyllic town. The runners stand in half circles outside the coffee shop, a farmer sells sweet corn from a parking lot, kids in flourescent T-shirts swarm over the playground, women in wedge sandals and capris peer into the yarn store, men in white undershirts sleep below the bridge, their fishing lines taut in the current.
Your father and I spent the last few sleepy afternoons watching episode after episode of a new show called "Broadchurch." So new that we were watching it illegally. The show involves the death of an 11-year-old boy in a similarly idyllic town. Episode by episode the brokenness beneath the idyl reveals itself (drugs and sex and betrayal--all the usual suspects) and by then end, of course, you're meant to realize that at some level this was a community of strangers. That no one knows anyone else entirely.
Meanwhile, your face is the opposite of idyllic: angry red bumps, some with white centers, rouged on your cheeks, speckling your chin; skin flaking in white flecks from your eyelids, your forehead, your temples. Before I introduce you to new people I announce glibly that you've got acne and leprosy, that you aren't winning any beauty contests right now. Stop saying that, said a member of my writer's group last night. He's beautiful.
But some part of me doesn't want others to think I'm the blind mother who can't see that her baby is *not* beautiful. And the truth is that I want you to be golden and shiny and perfect. I want your features wrought from porcelain. I want gasps from strangers. And I'm ashamed that I want these things and ashamed that I care so much about beauty. Studies show, of course, that attractive people have an easier time in life. Our society, certainly, does not favor excess weight or acne or overbites. Maybe part of my embarrassment comes from a desire to protect you, to want the best for you.
But also this is all I have of you right now. This is all that's knowable. All that I can share of you with others. As the days pass I can add smaller details--that you love to be cuddled, don't like to sleep on your own in the daytime; that you turn your head toward your sister's voice and stop crying when you're fed. But I can't talk about your generosity or your sense of humor or your desire to wear Mama's high heels. Part of me is frustrated that where I see a perfect addition to the world others might see ugliness and imperfection.
When Thisbe was born, I could only see her as a new parent. I thought she was gorgeous, perfect. When Thisbe was about six months old I remember going back and looking at her newborn photos, dumbfounded by the realization that she had looked like a strange and wrinkled alien much of the time.
With you, Matteus, I simultaneously see you as mother and as stranger. Beautiful and ugly. Finely wrought and finely marred.
As adults we generally get to know the facade first. We put our best face forward. We live together in community and let our brokeness writhe below the surface. It is a challenge and a gift to watch your face each day, Matteus, to watch for signs of your sweet soul rising to the dappled surface of your skin.
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