I WILL keep on telling my Matilda she’s pretty
MY daughter Matilda was never a pretty baby. Cute, yes. Squeezable, sure. But not beautiful. She was kooky-looking, with startlingly strong eyebrows and a perfectly round head that earned her the nickname ‘clockface’.
Matilda first asked me if she was beautiful aged three as I read her Rapunzel at bedtime. As always, she remarked on the protagonist’s long hair: ‘Mummy, Rapunzel’s hair is so beautiful. Am I beautiful too?’
I replied in the way that any mother would. ‘You’re the most beautiful girl in the world,’ I told her and I have continued to say so ever since.
Perhaps I should have told her looks aren’t everything, but my maternal instinct kicked in and I wanted to build her confidence.
Her short, tufty hair wouldn’t grow into long locks and this made her self-conscious, resisting trips to the hairdresser. ‘I want to have long hair and be pretty!’ she’d cry.
Each time, I’d issue the same earnest reassurance – she was just as pretty as the other girls.
Now that Matilda is almost six, I am blessed with a strong-willed, confident and well-rounded child. And I don’t regret my compliments one bit.
Whether we like it or not, women are frequently judged on their appearances. I know this all too well having been subjected to unkind comments following television appearances.
It upsets me to think that Matilda’s natural chutzpah might be knocked by our aesthetics obsessed world. Of course it’s not all about looks. I teach both Matilda and my one-year-old son George that it is the kindness in your heart that makes you beautiful. I praise compassion, sympathy and generosity with the same vigour.
Recently, Matilda and I were walking through our local park when she spotted a classmate with learning difficulties playing alone. Without instruction, she darted over to play with him. This act of pure kindness made her utterly beautiful – and I told her so.
At a recent sports day, she fell over during the sack race, only to jump back up and eventually win. I told her she’d shown grit and determination. When she tidies her bedroom, I say she’s conscientious and organised. Equally, if she’s pulled on a pretty frock and brushed her hair, I compliment her effort and beauty.
For my sins, am I stuck with a superficial, vacuous daughter who dreams of becoming a beauty queen? Quite the contrary.
Matilda couldn’t be less bothered by the way she looks. Being happy and having fun with her friends is far more important. Nevertheless, she tells me that she likes it when I call her beautiful, so why should I stop?
Last week, I asked my warrior princess daughter: ‘Would you rather be good at sports or beautiful?’
Her response was immediate: ‘Good at sports, Mummy. You don’t win medals for being beautiful.’