You know what I love about kids? They are honest. Oh so honest. I hear it almost weekly. "Ms. J what's on your face?" or "Ms J what's that on your eye?" I have a standard answer for kids. "It's just a spot where my skin is red sort of like a freckle or mole. It's called a birthmark. It's not an owie and it doesn't hurt."
It hurts sometimes. When kids point and ask and their parents ignore them or dragg them away from me like I'm Frankenstien's monster. I'm a grown woman I'm USED to the comments and questions. I've been asked if I was in a fire or if I was in an accident.In high school, one kids asked if my parents had burned me with an iron. Jerk. I hated it when I was a kid. It drew attention to me when I wanted to be invisible. I begged my mom to buy me make up to cover it. She told me I didn't need it. She said I was pretty just the way I was. She told me different is gorgeous. I begged more and she took me to Dillard's make up counter and purchased the stupidly expensive cover up. It was thick and hard to put on. But it covered up my birthmark. I wore it to school the next day. My friends shrugged it off. The cute boys didn't notice and the pretty popular girls didn't suddenly want to be my friend. It didn't fix how I felt about myself.
When I arrived home that day, I stared at myself in the mirror willing the birthmark away, praying the cover up was better than it looked to me. I wore it a few more times. It felt false and thick on my skin, like a mask.
I've finally learned to embrace my birthmark. C likes it and sometimes Monkey will touch it when he's rubbing my face. It's just part of who I am. Without it I doubt I'd be the same person.