I was upstairs doing my thing. Chickening, as my husband calls it. A rather odd verb, but one that has become a staple in our home as it is the term Adam uses to describe my method of homemaking accomplishment. I often race around the house like a chicken with my head cut off, darting from room to room doing all those things that need to be done in the daily life of a wife and mother. I realize the chicken without a head visual is slightly disturbing, but it’s also quite accurate. My friends call me efficient . . . productive. My husband calls me a chicken.

So I was upstairs chickening that Saturday morning, working away to the loud laughter coming from the basement where Adam was playing with our children. I’m sure you think my husband had the better end of the deal, but I was perfectly content to be dusting furniture and mopping floors. Cleaning makes me happy, and getting the house clean in the morning so I can enjoy it all day . . . well, that’s pure joy for those with a touch of OCD, like myself. There was a huge smile on my face that day as I rushed around heavily armed with cleaning products and washcloths.

Then I heard the scream, and all motion ceased.

I knew that kind of scream. It wasn’t a simple bump or bruise kind of scream. It was a something really bad kind of scream. A something is broken or bloody kind of scream. A something requiring more than a quick hug and a “you’ll be okay” kind of scream.

God really does have impeccable timing.

Just a few days earlier, Charlie had offered a rare piece of information from the school day during dinner.

“Addie* is on a diet.”

My stomach took a dive and I froze; my mouth opening in repute yet falling mute as the words stuck in my throat. My son had uttered such a simple sentence, yet it conjured decades of understanding and an immediate desire to stop the madness.

Only a parent can understand the amount of love behind the lecture that followed my son’s innocent remark. The love so full, so sure, so complete it overlooks any and all conditions. And it was a solid lecture, my friends. After my initial moments of shock induced silence, I rallied in a big way; offering up all those key phrases any other mother would use to convey the basic lessons of inner beauty.

Everyone is unique.
It’s what on the inside that counts.
It’s important to be healthy and active, not thin, and you should fuel your body with good food and plenty of exercise.
You are wonderfully and fearfully made by a God who loves you no matter what.
We love you no matter what.
AND SHE’S ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE SO WHY IN THE WORLD IS SHE ON A DIET???!!!That last piece of insight came out a bit louder than the rest, I’m afraid.

You see, one of my biggest goals as a parent is to avoid exposing my children to the insanity of the world when it comes to appearance and, especially, weight. I have never used the word “diet” in front of my children. Instead, I have tried to model positive behaviors, to set a good example. I eat healthy foods and exercise six days a week, often in front of my children. I rarely offer anything except water to drink. I make sure my kids have plenty of fruit and force them to eat vegetables. I frequently tell them which foods contain specific vitamins and minerals, and why such vitamins and minerals are important. I explain the necessity of fiber and protein. My children can name the superfoods.

I don’t own a scale. I turn off the Christian radio station when the commercials come on because half of them are about weight loss and laser hair removal. I frequently leave the house without makeup. My hair doesn’t spend much time with a dryer or straight iron – it hangs out with rubberbands instead. I don’t own designer clothes, I can’t recall ever spending more than a hundred bucks on a pair of shoes, and my shampoo and conditioner costs less than three dollars each.

Yes, I use anti-wrinkle cream every single night. Yes, I pay for my hair to look like I just spent a week at the beach. Yes, I require my son to wear khaki pants and collared shirts to a church where many people don’t and my daughter likely believes chocolate is a daily necessity, but in general, I think I’m doing what I can to make sure my children aren’t aware of the billion-dollar business often referred to as the beauty industry.

Despite my best efforts, however, it’s obvious the ignorance I crave for my children concerning beauty and weight doesn’t exist. They are aware. I can remind my kids every day that the perfect Creator made them just how they’re supposed to be, but at the ages of eight and six, Charlie and Libby have discovered that in our society, there is an importance placed on beauty that has absolutely nothing to do with God. And when my husband came upstairs holding a towel underneath our daughter’s nose after “the scream,” my own awareness of the importance of beauty took over and all my good intentions as a mother flew right out the window. Me, with a size nearly A bra that is still a tad too big despite having a husband willing to pay top dollar to change that fact became a walking billboard for plastic surgery the moment said husband pulled the towel away from our daughter’s face and I saw her precious little nose pushed slightly to one side.

I called the pediatrician first, but only to mask the vanity consuming me. I knew she would tell me to head to the emergency room and that’s where I wanted to go. I didn’t want to waste even a moment of time if there was a possibility it could affect the outcome of my daughter’s facial structure. I mean really, who cares if she is an honest, giving, responsible, caring, thoughtful human being? I just need her nose to be straight.

Turns out the doctors in emergency rooms don’t handle broken noses the way movies portray doctors handling broken noses. There is no quick jerk of the physician’s hand to set the nose back into proper position. The doctor touches the nose, looks up the nose, asks questions about the nose. Then he tells you to wait a week or so until the swelling goes down and see an ear, nose, and throat guy if your daughter is snoring like an eighty year old man or her nose still appears to be slightly off-center.

Libby’s nose wasn’t broken. It just swelled more on one side after her head-to-head collision with Charlie while they were both trying to dive for the same football. Hey, you gotta love a girl who is willing to bleed for a great catch. I doubt my daughter will be wearing a helmet the next time she plays football in the basement, although the doctor in the ER did suggest it, so I’m not sure what the lesson in the whole experience was for her. I do know, however, what the lesson was for me.

I learned that for all my efforts, I will never be able to convince my children, or myself for that matter, that the way they look doesn’t matter. Of course, I wouldn’t love my daughter less if her nose was crooked for the rest of her life. But the truth is, my nose is crooked and it does make me love myself a little less.

Every day, when I look in the mirror, I see things I would like to change about my appearance. Not one thing. Things . . . plural.

I don’t want my kids to do that. I don’t want Libby to wish for wavier hair, longer eyelashes, smoother skin. But she will. And maybe that’s how God teaches her humility. I don’t want Charlie to wish his peers would stop making fun of his buck teeth. But he will. And maybe that’s how God teaches him empathy.

I want my children to believe God created them perfectly because He makes no mistakes. I want them to understand that desiring to look different is just a way of saying God doesn’t provide. I want them to realize their worth comes from who they are, which comes from who He is, which will always be more than enough. And as much as I want those things for my children, I want them for myself. Because as of today, when I look in the mirror, I still see all the things I'd like to change about my appearance. I still see a crooked nose.