Pretty Perfect

She is pretty perfect, the mommy warned the teacher. Please try and keep her this way. The teacher smiled, used to these mommies of perfect children. The child looked down, embarrassed. The rest of us looked up in amazement. She could play the piano. She could sing, and it was pretty. She was an artist. She was pretty perfect in every way. The parent was right. We loved her and carried her around like a china doll. Loving her perfectness, Admiring her, Striving to be our own perfect selves. None of us lived up. We kept this quiet, Hoping she would still love us, And she did. Her name was Becky. When she grew up she turned her name into Bruce And became a boy, and her mother tried to tell us she was not perfect, But we knew that she was.