I Tell My Daughters They’re Beautiful Every Chance I Get
Bee Quammie When I announced my first pregnancy five years ago, friends routinely sent me links to parenting blogs and Facebook groups. I mulled this over, and decided to leave it. I get the concern, but I think it can be misguided. My mom complimented me about everything — in her eyes, I was the smartest, kindest, most talented child. At school, I was routinely teased for my knobby knees and ugly glasses. So my mother amped things up — she never let me leave the house without knowing she thought I was gorgeous. I truly felt protected by them. I admire their skin and let them marvel over the fact that even within our family, we come in different and equally beautiful shades of brown.
Arrange a Wednesday evening, President and Mrs. Obama hosted a glamorous reception by the American Museum of Natural Account. I sipped champagne, greeted foreign dignitaries, and mingled. But I could not stop thinking about my year-old daughter, who had started eighth grade three weeks earlier and was already resuming what had become his pattern of skipping homework, disrupting classes, failing math, and tuning out any adult who tried to reach him.