Last night, a few days after returning from our annual family holiday, I went through all the photographs we had taken on our various smartphones over the fortnight. It came as no surprise to discover there was not one single snap of me. I hate having my picture taken. What floored me, though, was how many there were of Flo and Annie, my teenage girls. They had clearly been taking pictures of themselves endlessly. The results made me proud and depressed in equal measure. Scroll down for video . Privileged: Shona's daughters Flo and Annie won't feel inadequate and unattractive like she did growing up . There they were sunning themselves on a rock, lying on the beach, drinking mocktails at the bar. Stupid me to assume they'd come on holiday to admire Croatian culture - what they really wanted to capture for posterity was countless images of themselves. If I sound a little jealous, you'll have to forgive me. Staring in awe at one photograph after another of my daughters in skimpy bikinis was enough to drive the point home that I have never come close to looking like that. And it wasn't just their beauty that made me seethe with an uncomfortable mix of pride and bitterness. I was also flooded with unease at the confidence they exuded. It seemed to me as if they were saying to the world: 'We're beautiful, and we know it.' Such audacity. Such knowingness. Yet somehow still so very innocent. I may have given birth to these two gorgeous creatures, but their adolescence will be a world apart from mine. How will I ever advise them how to navigate the passions they will arouse in boys and the jealousies they'll engender in girls? As someone who has hated the way she has looked since childhood, I am at a loss at how to guide them through this delicate stage of their lives. I've written before about coming to terms with my looks, and how it has taken me most of my adult life to accept the fact that my face will never launch even the smallest pedalo, let alone a thousand ships. I am a bit of an odd-looking bird. Longed for a different face: Shona aged 14 . It's easier to accept the cards I was dealt now I am a 43-year-old mother of four. I have a lovely home and family, a job I adore and a husband who doesn't seem to care how I look as long as I am happy. Which, believe it or not, I am. But for most of my teenage years, it was a different story. I didn't need girls at school to tell me that a birthmark over my right eye left it looking wonky - or that a mis-shaped jaw made my front teeth stick out. I was under no illusions. But how I longed for a different face - one that might get me to the periphery of the 'in' crowd at school, which all the pretty girls inhabited. It seemed an even harsher twist of fate that both my parents were stunningly good looking. At school open days I would watch, pained, as girls in my class looked in amazement from them, to me, and back again. No, I wasn't adopted. Yes, my mother probably did wonder if I had been swapped at birth. Of course my parents tried to tell me I had other attributes. My mother would say things like: 'You've got an attractive face, darling. It's far more interesting than being conventionally pretty.' All of which skirted around the fact that my face was so disappointing not even a mother could call it beautiful. And so like everyone who suffers from rock-bottom self-esteem, I compensated in other ways. I became an accomplished character actress, and tried not to feel disappointed at getting the part of Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream when I would have loved to have been cast as Titania. I worked really hard at being a loyal, reliable friend. I was made head girl only to lose my badge on a skiing trip a few months later when I followed my friends out of our hotel room and down a drain pipe to go to a disco. It was a small price to pay for being temporarily included in something the cool crowd were doing. Now, when I look back on it, I see that everything I did as a teenager was to balance the inadequacy of my appearance. Which is why, as a mother, I marvel at the fact that, through some genetic malfunction, I have given birth to the very girls who terrified me at school. Flo and Annie are the antithesis of my teenage self. They will never know how it feels to stand in a girls' loo trying not to cry because someone has made a barb about their funny face. Neither has a clue how it feels to be lonely at school. Neither seems to realise how truly privileged they are. I know I should be relieved for them that their mobiles never stop ringing; that when they post a Facebook snap of themselves, they are inundated with compliments. But their effortless confidence needles me a little. I often watch them as they saunter into school, flicking their hair nonchalantly. Worlds apart: Shona knows her daughters' adolescence will be much different to her own . How does it feel, I wonder, to take your place in the world without being held back by the slightest insecurity about your appearance? They say beauty is a curse. Not from where I'm standing it isn't. A charity report last week confirmed that looks are more important than ever. The Good Childhood Report, published by the Children's Society, said that girls in England today rank as some of the saddest in the world because of concerns over their body image. So in some ways I thank my lucky stars that my girls show no such concerns. Of course, if you asked Flo and Annie they could come up with a long list of flaws they perceive themselves to have. Certainly, when I told them I was tackling this issue, they pleaded with me to make it clear that under no circumstances do they believe themselves to be beautiful. But, for me, this is like hearing Cindy Crawford complain about her facial mole or Lily Cole her red hair. Annie is only 13 and already flirts with an ease I have never possessed. Our local takeaway man is smitten - although Annie tells me she only does it to get extra spring rolls. Researchers have found that attractive parents pass on good looks to daughters, but not to sons . Flo, too, has admirers who really should know better. A taxi driver recently commented how much she looks like a young Jerry Hall. Instead of feeling proud, I found myself snapping: 'She's only 15.' The poor man looked horrified. I have shown both the girls photographs of how I looked at their age and they howl with laughter. I hope it helps them understand how it feels to be that girl, whoever she is. I'd like to invite her over for tea and force my daughters to see that behind every Ugly Betty there is someone like me desperate to emerge. But they just tell me that's weird and could I please butt out. I'll never forget once interviewing Sarah Ferguson and her telling me that she stood Eugenie and Beatrice in front of a mirror every day and told them how stunning they were. She was determined that her own feelings of inadequacy would never be passed on to her daughters. It's a good lesson and one I have tried to adopt with Flo and Annie. I feel I owe them praise, whether they need it or not. It's hardly their fault they look this way any more than being so plain was mine. The other day when we were all standing in front of the mirror, me cringing in the background, Flo said: 'You know, Mum, you're too harsh on yourself because you are beautiful in your own way.' Perhaps, just sometimes, it helps mothers to hear it from their daughters, too.
Shona Sibary, 43, seethes with an uncomfortable mix of pride and bitterness .
She envies the looks and confidence of her daughters Flo, 15, and Annie, 13 .
Their adolescence is a world apart from hers .
She grew up feeling ugly and lonely .
Last night, a few days after returning from our annual family holiday, I went through all the photographs we had taken on our various smartphones over the fortnight. It came as no surprise to discover there was not one single snap of me. I hate having my picture taken. What floored me, though, was how many there were of Flo and Annie, my teenage girls. They had clearly been taking pictures of themselves endlessly. The results made me proud and depressed in equal measure. Scroll down for video . Privileged: Shona's daughters Flo and Annie won't feel inadequate and unattractive like she did growing up . There they were sunning themselves on a rock, lying on the beach, drinking mocktails at the bar. Stupid me to assume they'd come on holiday to admire Croatian culture - what they really wanted to capture for posterity was countless images of themselves. If I sound a little jealous, you'll have to forgive me. Staring in awe at one photograph after another of my daughters in skimpy bikinis was enough to drive the point home that I have never come close to looking like that. And it wasn't just their beauty that made me seethe with an uncomfortable mix of pride and bitterness. I was also flooded with unease at the confidence they exuded. It seemed to me as if they were saying to the world: 'We're beautiful, and we know it.' Such audacity. Such knowingness. Yet somehow still so very innocent. I may have given birth to these two gorgeous creatures, but their adolescence will be a world apart from mine. How will I ever advise them how to navigate the passions they will arouse in boys and the jealousies they'll engender in girls? As someone who has hated the way she has looked since childhood, I am at a loss at how to guide them through this delicate stage of their lives. I've written before about coming to terms with my looks, and how it has taken me most of my adult life to accept the fact that my face will never launch even the smallest pedalo, let alone a thousand ships. I am a bit of an odd-looking bird. Longed for a different face: Shona aged 14 . It's easier to accept the cards I was dealt now I am a 43-year-old mother of four. I have a lovely home and family, a job I adore and a husband who doesn't seem to care how I look as long as I am happy. Which, believe it or not, I am. But for most of my teenage years, it was a different story. I didn't need girls at school to tell me that a birthmark over my right eye left it looking wonky - or that a mis-shaped jaw made my front teeth stick out. I was under no illusions. But how I longed for a different face - one that might get me to the periphery of the 'in' crowd at school, which all the pretty girls inhabited. It seemed an even harsher twist of fate that both my parents were stunningly good looking. At school open days I would watch, pained, as girls in my class looked in amazement from them, to me, and back again. No, I wasn't adopted. Yes, my mother probably did wonder if I had been swapped at birth. Of course my parents tried to tell me I had other attributes. My mother would say things like: 'You've got an attractive face, darling. It's far more interesting than being conventionally pretty.' All of which skirted around the fact that my face was so disappointing not even a mother could call it beautiful. And so like everyone who suffers from rock-bottom self-esteem, I compensated in other ways. I became an accomplished character actress, and tried not to feel disappointed at getting the part of Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream when I would have loved to have been cast as Titania. I worked really hard at being a loyal, reliable friend. I was made head girl only to lose my badge on a skiing trip a few months later when I followed my friends out of our hotel room and down a drain pipe to go to a disco. It was a small price to pay for being temporarily included in something the cool crowd were doing. Now, when I look back on it, I see that everything I did as a teenager was to balance the inadequacy of my appearance. Which is why, as a mother, I marvel at the fact that, through some genetic malfunction, I have given birth to the very girls who terrified me at school. Flo and Annie are the antithesis of my teenage self. They will never know how it feels to stand in a girls' loo trying not to cry because someone has made a barb about their funny face. Neither has a clue how it feels to be lonely at school. Neither seems to realise how truly privileged they are. I know I should be relieved for them that their mobiles never stop ringing; that when they post a Facebook snap of themselves, they are inundated with compliments. But their effortless confidence needles me a little. I often watch them as they saunter into school, flicking their hair nonchalantly. Worlds apart: Shona knows her daughters' adolescence will be much different to her own . How does it feel, I wonder, to take your place in the world without being held back by the slightest insecurity about your appearance? They say beauty is a curse. Not from where I'm standing it isn't. A charity report last week confirmed that looks are more important than ever. The Good Childhood Report, published by the Children's Society, said that girls in England today rank as some of the saddest in the world because of concerns over their body image. So in some ways I thank my lucky stars that my girls show no such concerns. Of course, if you asked Flo and Annie they could come up with a long list of flaws they perceive themselves to have. Certainly, when I told them I was tackling this issue, they pleaded with me to make it clear that under no circumstances do they believe themselves to be beautiful. But, for me, this is like hearing Cindy Crawford complain about her facial mole or Lily Cole her red hair. Annie is only 13 and already flirts with an ease I have never possessed. Our local takeaway man is smitten - although Annie tells me she only does it to get extra spring rolls. Researchers have found that attractive parents pass on good looks to daughters, but not to sons . Flo, too, has admirers who really should know better. A taxi driver recently commented how much she looks like a young Jerry Hall. Instead of feeling proud, I found myself snapping: 'She's only 15.' The poor man looked horrified. I have shown both the girls photographs of how I looked at their age and they howl with laughter. I hope it helps them understand how it feels to be that girl, whoever she is. I'd like to invite her over for tea and force my daughters to see that behind every Ugly Betty there is someone like me desperate to emerge. But they just tell me that's weird and could I please butt out. I'll never forget once interviewing Sarah Ferguson and her telling me that she stood Eugenie and Beatrice in front of a mirror every day and told them how stunning they were. She was determined that her own feelings of inadequacy would never be passed on to her daughters. It's a good lesson and one I have tried to adopt with Flo and Annie. I feel I owe them praise, whether they need it or not. It's hardly their fault they look this way any more than being so plain was mine. The other day when we were all standing in front of the mirror, me cringing in the background, Flo said: 'You know, Mum, you're too harsh on yourself because you are beautiful in your own way.' Perhaps, just sometimes, it helps mothers to hear it from their daughters, too.
Shona's daughters Flo and Annie won't feel beauty that made me seethe with an uncomfortable mix of pride and bitterness. I was also flooded a world apart from mine. How will I ever advise nonchalantly. Worlds apart: Shona knows her