I kneeled down on the hardwood floor to get to a lower level and scold my son for something he did that he wasn’t supposed to. When I have one of these serious conversations with my children, I usually furrow my brow and get my serious face on. Just as I was reaching my most wise words, the climax of my parental advice that was surely going to forever change this particular behavior in my young son, he interrupted me.
“Mom, what is THAT on your forehead?” he said, with a quizzical tone.
“What?” I said, hoping he was not talking about what I thought he was talking about.
“That!! All those lines all over your forehead!” he said in disbelief.
“Oh,” I said. He was talking about what I was hoping he wasn’t talking about.
“Those are called wrinkles. People get these wrinkles on their forehead
after raising four children consisting of triplets and red heads when they grow older.
“Ohhhhhh,” he replied. Then he turned and ran away. Our serious conversation was over. All that was left lingering after my scolding were a bunch of ugly wrinkles on my forehead.
I had recently been thinking about trying Botox for my 40th birthday vanity splurge. Preston may have just pushed me from an “eh maybe” category into the “hell yes I will” in favor of getting Botox.
But really, at the end of the day who really cares about a few wrinkles on my forehead. Or even 20. Who cares about the permanent deep creases in between my eyes.
My family thinks I am beautiful with or without my wrinkles.
Tonight Preston told me he was giving me a thousand kisses, with the last kiss being the “smoochiest kiss of them all.” Then he said he was giving me a thousand hugs with the last being the “huggiest of all hugs.”
He loves me, wrinkles and all.
I still may do Botox though, just see what it feels like when I try and move my forehead and nothing happens. I wonder if anyone other than me would even notice if my forehead no longer had expressions and wrinkles?
I would like to thank my son for keeping it real and keeping me humble. Leave it to your own child to point out your imperfections, but love you just the same.
Until next time, the mothership is signing off.