my five-year-old doesn’t think i’m beautiful – and that’s OK

Far from being hurt, Kitty Dimbleby is quite at ease with her daughter’s opinion about how she looks

The first time she said it, I admit I was slightly shocked – dressed up to go out with friends I came so say goodnight, as my husband read Chloe her bedtime story: ‘Doesn’t Mummy look beautiful?’ he asked. ‘ Mummy isn’t beautiful,’ my daughter stated brightly.

Ed was horrified, but I shushed him. There was no malice in her words – of course not, she was just stating the facts as she understands them. Ask my daughter what beautiful means and she’ll explain that it is curling eyelashes which frame huge eyes and wavy long hair, big dresses and bright lipstick. It’s every princess she’s seen in every Disney film and the Barbies which (to my dismay) she covets with unashamed longing. It’s the stereotype of female beauty she’s absorbing from the world around her. Her daddy she considers handsome and, as a former soldier, he even has a smart uniform to complete the fairy tale. But I’m different.

I’m mostly dressed in jeans and jumper, sports kit or, for special occasions, a jumpsuit with heels. Always minimal ( if any) make-up and air-dried hair. I don’t fit her current brief. And honestly, she’s right: I’m not beautiful by any of the standards set by ourselves and society. She has put it more kindly than I have over the years – when, as a teenager and in my twenties, I would stand in front of the mirror berating myself for my perceived failings.

In dispassionate black and white, here are the facts (omitting all the things about me which are society-approved beautiful): I’m five foot nothing and I have many scars from childhood surgeries. My nose is hooked and my neck is short. I’ve got small eyes and straight lashes. I have a limp from the club foot I was born with and my middle is thick from carrying my babies (and a love of white wine). I’ve got a gummy smile and a chipped tooth. But you know what, that’s all OK. Finally, in my late thirties, I’m learning that my appearance doesn’t define me; it’s not important to anyone other than me. And yet sadly, it’s the thing that I have worried about consistently over the years. I’m not alone, I don’t think I can think of a single female peer for whom this isn’t the case. This isn’t right. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look your best and I do; I love new clothes, getting pampered in the hairdressers or having a manicure. The occasional spray tan is great for morale and a facial is a saviour to the tired parent. I admire the mums on the school run, immaculately dressed and wearing bright lipstick, when I’ve barely managed to get out of my pyjamas. They look fabulous – and if it makes them feel good then that’s great.

But so many of us are focused on the external when we should be working on the internal. It’s not surprising – in 2017 ‘fat’ is still the worst thing you can call someone. Women are treated like objects in adverts and films. Male predators have continued to reach the top of their careers, including the Oval Office and Hollywood, without their treatment of women hindering them. We’re bombarded daily with information telling us we are not thin enough, curvy enough, white enough, tanned enough, tall enough or petite enough. That we are not enough.

From birth, our daughters are talked to about their looks, their clothes, while our sons are asked about their adventures, their interests. We all do it. Chloe knows she is beautiful because every adult confirms it. She starts to learn that it matters, maybe more than her ability to scale a climbing wall on her own, draw giraffes with huge smiles or comfort another child who is sad. Now it’s my job to help her realise the truth quicker than I did. So, I agreed with Chloe that I’m not beautiful and asked what I am instead.

Here’s what she said: ‘ You’re really strong from running and riding your bike. Good at making up stories and songs. You make me laugh and you make the best cheesy pasta. You grew me and Max [her brother] in your big fat tummy which was clever, Daddy can’t do that. You love us and your friends lots. You’re good at drinking wine and dancing. You always get rid of the bad dreams and you are kind.’

So, I say loudly and with pride that my daughter does not think I’m beautiful. She thinks I’m kind, clever, funny, loving and strong and that is the best example I could set her; that our appearance as girls and women does not define us, but our actions and behaviour do.