i have my mother’s mouth
I have my mother’s mouth. My lips are only slightly fuller than hers in the exact shape and position on my face as hers. I have her overbite and large two front teeth and bright, beautiful smile. Dad has mostly straight teeth and a quirky smile that is beautiful because it means he’s happy. A few years ago, he had adult braces and today, still wears a retainer to correct the way his top teeth naturally lie directly over the bottom. I think it’s ironic that his mouth was the one that needed fixing.
As a child, I was told two things repeatedly: do what makes you happy from one parent and don’t do that ever again from the other. Growing up, I did gymnastics and ski club and theatre and speech and debate and mock trial, and I was happy. In my first gymnastics phase, which lasted from kindergarten to third grade, I had my mother’s mouth. I was loud and obnoxious, with no filter, and a knack for saying things that got me into trouble with others. By the second gymnastics phase, which lasted for just one year in the sixth grade, I had grown out of that mouth. After the seventh or eighth time of having soap shoved in my mouth, tasting more bitter than my tears and nearly waterboarding the insolence lodged in my throat, my mother had beaten her mouth right out of me.
