My daughters and I just got home from seeing Penelope. I’d seen the preview a couple of times in the theater and so was happy to see that it opened today. A fun event for a Friday night.
It’s the story of a young heiress who was born as the bearer of a generation’s-old curse: she has the face of a pig. It’s her story of being hidden away for over 20 years, convinced that she was hideous, and shamed by men who run screaming from the room when she appears – despite a hefty dowry and the promise that the curse will be broken when she finally weds. It’s her story of breaking free of not her own shame, but her mother’s, frankly. It’s her story of coming to realize that she really likes who she is and that the curse has no power over her (no Biblical or theological ramifications there!). It’s her story of loving herself – and of being loved…not for what she looks like, but for who she most truly is.
The story was sweet, entertaining, and worth the price of admission. But far more, it was worth seeing to be reminded of how not to be a mother to my daughters.
It’s so easy and natural to have anticipations, hopes, and dreams for our children; to long for their best and desire that they live lives of joy, fulfillment, and “life.” But how easily do those altruistic dreams on their behalf begin to drift just a bit away from the hopes themselves and into categories we think enable such? Appearance. Behavior. Clothing. Choices. I found myself thinking about how I feel when my daughters wear outfits that I see as a little less than flattering; hardly the cute, pink or purple dresses I once chose for them – with matching socks, shoes, and hair ribbons. I found myself thinking about when I’ve tried to amend their behavior into something that is more appropriate, less caustic, frankly, more what I like. I found myself thinking about how many times I’ve critiqued their choice of music, or boy-idol crushes, or way of “being” with friends…because it doesn’t fit what I somehow think would be best for them.
Trust me: I’m not beating myself up as a mom. For the most part, I do a pretty good job – and I fail miserably. And I know I’m not alone.
It’s Penelope’s mother who is the true villain in this story. She cannot/will not love her daughter for who she is. Penelope’s less-than-desirable appearance somehow becomes her shame, her identity, her mission to change. The mother is the true pig – the true beast in the film. Ouch!
I learned a lesson tonight: one that I’ve learned before and will undoubtedly need to learn again. My daughters “best” will be what they decide. My role is to be one who cheers them on – always, unconditionally, no matter what – inviting them to become even more of the unique, amazing young women that they already are.
The film’s byline says this:
She’s been hiding all her life.
Soon, she’ll show the world just who she is.
I don’t want my daughter’s to ever feel like they have to hide – in any context, ever, and certainly not in any way, shape, or form from or for me. I want the world to see them for who they are now, later, always. At least for the next few years, it’s (partly) my job to make that happen.
Penelope’s worth seeing. Emma and Abby loved it – and undoubtedly for totally different reasons than me. I was glad I could take them. The popcorn and Diet Coke always taste better at the theater. The hero is perfect. The ending is perfectly sweet. But really, this film was for me: a mom who wants to do better – not for my sake, but for theirs.
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