Most of my life I have been called "cute." Apparently this is just a part of being 5'1". And honestly, hearing myself described that way has never felt much like a compliment, no matter how many people -- my husband and my father included -- try to convince me otherwise. Cute, to me, suggests that I will not be taken seriously. Cute is for five-year-olds who say something childish and naive. I don't want to be "cute," I want to be amazing, stunning, dangerous, compelling.
That is, until 1:00 this morning. The Ghoulie was halfway through eating, having just taken a short break for a diaper change. She was swaddled tightly in her blanket, wearing a little pink gown and hat (because our bedroom has gone from "cooled off" to downright chilly -- but it's June and I am not turning on the heat again). As we sat down on the bed and I fumbled with my bra, she opened her eyes wide and rounded her tiny mouth in anticipation. In that instant, something simply "cute" became the most beautiful, the most sacred thing in the world. She was amazing, stunning, compelling (although dangerous might still be a stretch).
"Cute" seems to have a lot more power behind it than I ever realized. The next time someone tells me I'm cute, I might say "thank you" a bit more sincerely.
1 comment:
Thanks!
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