Insecurity blanket

June has just declared detente with her second cold.

While it was certainly more, um, productive than the first in terms of mucous output, it was pretty mild. Save for one night, she slept fine, was in a great mood, and it remained in her sinus cavity. Nothing in the ears, lungs or throat. I'm very thankful for that.

There was one big beef poor June had with her malady, however.

Kleenex.

For a baby unaffected by most things that would upset a child (loud noises, whacking herself in the head with a toy, the administering of a rectal thermometer and the like), Kleenex is her undoing. It got to the point where she would simply see me pull one from the box and start to recoil.

I had a thought: this must be why the white sheet became the symbol of surrender -- deep-seeded issues arising from infant colds.

My dad, watching her writhe and bellow while I grasped her sturdy cheeks with Kleenex in hand, offered a typically wise observation.

"This must be where insecurities come from."

So, so true. Here's a lady (me) who has made it her life's work to do nothing but good for this child (June). Feeding her when hungry, comforting her when upset, hand-picking dog hairs from her toys when they become unrecognizably hirsute. Suddenly I approach her with the Dreaded White Thing and intentionally annoy the crap out of her. She doesn't realize it's for her own good (and for, admittedly, my snot phobia). All she thinks is, "Well, this sucks. Thanks for nothing."

I think about those kids we all knew in grade school -- the ones who, on their healthiest day, had two streams of snot the width of PVC piping shellacked to the underside of their nostrils. Is this going to be June? So scarred from her mother's persistent nose wiping that she chooses to eschew it altogether? I shudder at the thought.

Then I think about myself, and the fact that there is no shortage of insecurities rolling around in my dome -- most of them tied to a specific moment in time and burned into my memory. Let us take a look back, shall we?

Insecurity No. 1: My obsession with clothes.

As I've mentioned before, this one didn't exactly yield an impeccable sense of style. While I may stew about what I wear (and fantasize about outfits as I drift off to sleep at night), I normally don't look particularly good. Take today, for instance. I changed three times getting dressed this morning. Three times. What wearable golden egg emerged victorious? A stained skirt and a shirt so stretched in the bustline that I can just whip one out without adjusting any clothing. No, I'm not going anywhere, and yes, it made functional sense, but three times? Three times??

I remember doing something similar in 7th grade on the day I was to visit New Trier High School (what a joke that was -- like that was ever even a fleeting option). I had been thinking about what I was going to wear that day for weeks. New Trier was a fashion mecca of pegged jeans, hemp ponchos and crystal pendants. How do I, with the austere wardrobe typical of the uniformed, compete with that? When that morning finally rolled around I chickened out of dazzling all those boys with my authentic Jeremy Roenick jersey and opted for the invisible look: jeans, a giant green v-neck sweater and a white turtleneck. And not even my "good" white turtleneck. I had to secure it with a safety pin so the collar would hug my neck just so. My guide for the day, Jillian Abruzzo (name changed), wore white jeans, a chambray shirt, and, as I discovered when she changed for gym, a real bra with lace on it and everything. My mind was blown and I, deep down, thanked Jesus for my predetermined path to single-sex Catholic high school education. I was just not ready for the level of sartorial responsibility coeducational schooling demanded.

Anyway, the insecurity can all be traced to one definitive moment.

Picture it: OLPH Preschool. Glenview, Ill. 1981. A gaggle of girls standing in a hallway talking before Miss DePrima ushers the group into her classroom. One of the girls' mother approaches.

"Oh, look at all you girls in your pretty dresses!"

Little Kerry beams, then panics, looking down to find that she is NOT wearing a pretty dress, but instead a pair of purple overalls and a heart-studded turtleneck.

Cue a lifetime of clothing anxiety dreams, wardrobe regret and the ability to remember what I wore on just about any given day of my life.

Insecurity No. 2: The wearing of makeup every day*.

Now, It's not a face full of foundation and an eyeliner beauty mark, or wearing makeup to the gym (if I went to the gym), I'm talking a little mascara, a little concealer, a little Benefit Dandelion to give June something un-wretched to look at. It's part of my routine and if it makes me feel a little better, then why not, right?

*Every day is a bit of a stretch, as there are plenty of occasions where this ritual gets shirked. But most days is accurate. And if you have seen the photos of the morning of June's birth and the mascara on my tear-streaked cheek, then you get the idea. Although, in my defense, I went in to labor when we were out to dinner so I didn't exactly rush home to prep my skin. Anyway.

I trace this one back to the following. It was on or around my 13th birthday when my mom felt I was old enough to handle the heavy journalism and ensuing body image problems of Seventeen Magazine. She brought it home from the grocery store and presented it with grandeur, cognizant of the life-altering power it possessed. I was elated. Having recently discovered the joys of scented lotions (see No. 3), it was like they had run those Love's BabySoft ads for me alone. I scanned the table of contents: "Does He Like You?" -- who cares. "Your Changing Body" -- gross. "Zap That Zit in a Hurry" -- my hands couldn't work fast enough to find that page.

It was between that generous review of "Return to the Blue Lagoon" and the box ad for those deodorant crystals that I found a story about a pair of modeling sisters. They loved one another (lies), and did everything together (serious lies) and stumbled into modeling when they were discovered on the beach near their California home (oh, come on). The younger of the two, also 13, was breathtaking. Straight, sunkissed hair, a smooth bronze sheen to her skin, perfectly aligned Tic-Tac teeth. I closed my eyes and summoned the power of all the beauty gods to find a visage like this little bitch's when I opened them again. Instead I found a head of hair like David St. Hubbins', including some big-mistake bangs I had recently cut myself, a gray pallor and a grill full of sideways horse teeth.

I burst into tears.

This girl upset me so much that my mom, who had since surprised me with an entire subscription to Seventeen, threatened to cancel it if it was going to continue to affect me this way. No! No! No! It can handle it, I told her. I needed this magazine now. I was one UPC code away from the free Caboodles gift set.

Rather than letting the teen model bring me to ruin, I channeled the negative energy and decided to put it to good use. I sneaked into my sister's room, rifled through her makeup bag and produced a free-gift-with-purchase-sized compact of Clinique blush in Totally Tawny. I ground the included brush into its cakey constitution and applied it with such gusto that I split the brush hairs in two and could feel the brush's metal anchor scraping my skin. Forehead. Cheeks. Chin. Nose. Eyelids. Heck, neck too. Why not. I admired my creation in the mirror. I looked tan, beachy, like a sun goddess.

Meg walked into her room, pissed. We were headed to a graduation party for her and her friend and this was not what she wanted accompanying her. I assumed it was because I looked so good.

"What the hell are you doing? Get out of my room! And you look like you got burned in an industrial accident."

So much for that.

It's being applied with a much lighter hand these days, but it's still being applied.

And I know now I'm totally not a Totally Tawny.

Insecurity No. 3: The need to smell good.

This stemmed from what I like to call "The Horse Days." I'm talkin' interest in horses as well as a resemblance to horses.

And apparently an odor reminiscent of horses.

It was a love not unlike what so many other girls experience at the onset of adolescence -- the horse love. I have no idea why. Is it their majestic beauty? The aristocratic airs horse people have? A communion with nature? The fact that, unlike boys, horses will love any old sadsack who flat-palms them a carrot? I'm guessing that one.

Whatever it was, I BEGGED my parents for horseback riding lessons. After years I finally wore them down and I was treated to a two-week summertime riding camp at the Horse Forum in some northern suburb I'm forgetting now. For the first week I threw up every day, and by the end of the second week I realized what terrifying, pissy animals horses are and that put an end to that obsession.

But it was sometime during my Horse Forum days, before I saw a horse bite Lizzie O'Rourke in the chest and thus get turned off from the hobby permanently, that I was with my dad at the Winnetka Village Toy Shop and was able to successfully lobby a Breyer model horse -- a Pinto pony, if you're wondering -- out of the visit. In a gesture of thanks, I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a big, genuine hug.

Only later did my mom delicately explain to me that my dad said the hug was a rather musky, equine one and perhaps I should think about showering after returning from camp. She handed me a stick of Avon deodorant that had come in a gift pack she scored for half-price the day after Nite Lites, and suggested maybe it was time. For the record, I would have been better off with the crystals in Seventeen Magazine. That deodorant was a joke. Anyway, I was pretty shook-up by the whole ordeal and committed to not only not smelling bad, but smelling almost offensively good at all times. Lotions. Potions. Perfumes. Shower gels. Soaps. It's an affliction that follows me to this very day. This morning, with my stained skirt and light makeup application, I am enshrouded in a subtle mist of Hawaiian Pikake flower essence. It is delightful.

So very long story short, the littlest things have the biggest impacts.

And, please Lord, may June take after her insecurity-free father in this respect.