dear mom: (this is a poem)
     (this is typed so that you don’t have to struggle through my handwriting-- which is, like me, sloppy and a little difficult, but sometimes people tell me that it’s pretty and artsy. your handwriting is swirly and elegant and sometimes hard to read, but i love looking at it anyway.)
     psychologically speaking, children do not understand “good” and “bad” in terms of flaws until they are taught by observing, watching their elders discriminate peers based on skin and shape and size and little pieces of identity that seem to be unusual. children see moles and freckles as interesting marks. squishy tummies are good for laying on. good hugs are good hugs, whether you’re tall or short or gangly or round.
     psychologically speaking, a child’s insecurities will stem from their parents--
     when a girl sees her mother disliking something about herself, that girl is more likely to grow up and feel that way as well.
     people tell me that i look like you all the time. (i like to roll my eyes a little passively and act like i’m sick of hearing it (sometimes it does get tiring) but it has always been a compliment.) this is not me telling you that i have your insecurities (i know you don’t like your chin and your arms and sometimes you don’t like your tummy) but instead this is me telling you this:
     you and dad always like to tell me how beautiful i am.
     momma, i look like you. you’re beautiful too.
     you’re the perfect height for hugging because, if i want to, i can engulf you and pull my arms over yours and tuck my face into your shoulder. but you’re also the perfect height for hugging because if i need to, i can tuck myself under your arms and press my face against your collarbone and feel protected by you.
     your hands hurt a lot now but that doesn’t mean they can’t still make beautiful things. i love the way that your fingers compliment your wedding/engagement rings.
     your arms are good for lifting, picking up new projects and painting and framing and helping me carry things.
     (harry potter had his mother’s green eyes and so do i. lily potter didn’t have glasses but that just means that we’re beating them by just a smidge, then.)
     your hair is perfect for being played with, soft and easy to run my fingers through. (you endured countless Little League baseball games with me twisting your poor tresses into knots, didn’t you? and you’ve spent hours patiently playing with mine, because even though your hands get tired you know that it feels good.)
     dear mom: i know it kinda ***** to deal with moody teenagers (twice!) especially when you can’t really figure out what we’re upset about half the time, but you never get angry when i cry out of frustration. you listen to my dubiously-correct fun facts and watch silly videos of adorable cats and you buy me books and paint and all kinds of crafty things, and i know from experience how hard it can be to love yourself sometimes but mom, here’s the thing: *i love you.