My First Charm

Peter got me the prettiest charm bracelet complete with its first charm last week for my birthday. I had wanted one ever since I noticed the melodic way that my cousin Melissa sipped wine and ate tapas at one of our favorite Naperville restaurants about a year ago. The sweet music attached to her movements was coming from her bracelet – a collection of charms around a silver band that her mother wore everyday and had passed along to her – a bracelet that tells the story of her mom and dad and all their adventures together.

I fell in love with it and wanted one of my own so I could start collecting the baubles that represented the milestones and memories of our life – a shiny, jingly cheat sheet for storytelling.

So I gave Peter a not so discreet hint –

“Is taking you to the fancy restaurant enough for your birthday?”

Big eyes.

“Oh … it’s not.”

“Well … it doesn’t have to be for my birthday, but before we get married, I would really love a charm bracelet.”

Eye roll.

Being the slightly spoiled girl that I am, when I came back from the bathroom on Wednesday evening there was a neatly tied jewelry box sitting on the dinner table. I opened the package and immediately put it on. All evening, through the night, throughout the entirety of this week, even this morning as I type, I have admired my new jewelry and the representation of the first step that Peter and I took toward a life together in the “I love you” charm that spins around the bracelet.

While I can’t imagine not wearing it everyday, there is a reason why it’s been permanently glued to my wrist. I can’t get it off. The clasp requires a long, strong nail to pop it open. The strongest contestant, my gnawed left thumbnail, has failed night after night to undo it.

This is just one drawback, in a lifetime of them, to being a nail biter – one that has gotten better about it, but that still doesn’t have the claws that some girls do. Let’s see … orange peel starting and soda can opening became mouth activities; pulling price tags off of new merchandise and untying tight knots were projects given to my Mom to complete; I left myself out of manicure parties, I’ve always been more than exuberant for glove season, and I can still taste the awful bitter Nail Biter formula on my tongue sometimes.

I could blame stress, anxiety, or boredom for my bad habit, but I think there is a deeper psychological issue at bay. When I was born, I came out with a scratch on my face. In that very first baby picture you get – the one where my sister and brother look great – I have a long red scratch that runs down my right cheek. I think the only time I have had good nails is in utero. And when I scratched myself with them, I took a silent vow of demolition.

29 years later, I can safely say that I have never scratched myself or anyone else with my nails. In fact, a great day is when they break the plane of my fingertip and I can successfully itch my back.

Yesterday I found out that I was going to have another baby niece – that’s two nieces in the matter of three months. While I will make the same promise to her as I did to Baby Pink, she has a more complicated problem. She’s a direct descendant of my family, which could mean that she might scratch herself too. Or, she might come out with a big head, weird toes, lots of hair, or the chubbiest thighs known to man.  While her mother most likely counteracts these minor flaws with her perfect proportioning, petite nature, and well-cared-for hands and feet, there’s a chance of a dimple or two.

But in thinking about it, the small scars, deformities, oddities, and irregularities of my family are some of our best charms. Over the years they have created the better story, the hardier laugh, and the richer personality. They have humbled us and given us a softer touch. They have made us smarter and faster. They have given us a unique sense of creativity and imagination. And they have made us healthier and stronger.

So baby F, if you scratch yourself on the way out, don’t think of it as a flaw, but a charm from me to you. I’ll teach you the ways of a nail biter - that short nails will make you a better piano player, a more tenacious lacrosse player (no check could take my already non-existent nails off), a faster typist, and a woman who can put a lifetime’s saving of manicure appointments to use for the better stuff, like purses that immediately draw a voyeur’s eyes from hand, to handbag.

And if you have beautiful nails, I’ll still teach that stuff anyway. 

Lo.