Seeing Spots

Towelling Westley off after his bath, I notice a tiny brown spot between his shoulder blades, and another on his forearm. Moles.

Along with his impossibly blue* eyes, this is one way in which Westley definitely looks like me. Most people have a few moles. I have too many to count.

My first thought upon spotting (heh) these tiny dots that I could not wipe away wasn't so much a thought, but a brief stomach-sinking dread. Oh, no.

When Westley was born, his skin seemed so perfect. Apart from a little bit of molding across the top of his head, like a headband, he was completely unmarked, and smooth all over. The appearance of moles (and scars and rough patches) is just another sign that the baby is fading away, being replaced by a full-blown child. But, more importantly, seeing a few spots on my son makes me wonder just how many more there are, waiting to emerge. And I wonder what he'll think of them.

For as long as I can remember, I've hated my moles. I especially hated them as a child, growing up in Southern California, where girls wore skirts and short sleeves year-round. I was so envious of my classmates and their seemingly perfect, unmarked-compared-to-my skin. I longed for freckles, which seemed smoother and more evenly-spaced than my collection of moles, more of a fashion statement than a flaw.

I never grew into loving my moles - the way some freckled girls grow to appreciate their freckles - and I do my best to hide them. I never developed much of a skincare regime, because "perfect skin" seemed like an impossibility for me. No matter how smooth, no matter how soft, I'd still have these ugly spots everywhere.

Clothing hides most of them, which is good. But on my face, where it really matters to me, there's not much I can do. Good make-up helps a little bit. And I'll admit to retouching the occasional photo to finally give myself the skin I've always wished I could have.

The funny thing is that when I look at my own moles, I'm disgusted by them. But, despite my initial minor panic, Westley's moles don't bother me at all. They look kind of sweet, actually. Maybe it's because he's still little, so the rules are different for him, but the little round dots on his skin don't seem like flaws, just tiny dermatological surprises.

Which makes me wonder: if moles can be sweet - or even attractive - on my son, why can't they be the same on me?

*"Impossible" because Rob's eyes are brown, which is dominant. Rob's parents' eyes are brown. Rob's maternal grandmother has blue eyes (I think), so that gene had a ways to go before it got to Westley. Who, I should mention, is also left-handed. We call him "Mr. Recessive Genes."

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