I spent part of my Mother’s Day up in my walk-in closet. Alone.
Miss Emily was napping, and Honey had taken the boys into town to get the makings for my Mother’s Day dinner. He had planned on making Rouladin, but both grocery stores in our small town were sold out of everything (of course). I told him not to sweat it and that we would make do with the plethora of groceries that we already had. We made beef fajitas and it was ALL GOOD.
Back to the closet.
I was going through the items hanging in my closet. Packing away the winter wear, trying on the summer clothes I had from last year. Standing in front of the mirror and assessing my body.
I have posted about My Journey To Fat And Back. I have written A Letter To My Body. Eighty-five percent of the time, I am comfortable in my skin. I go to Step Boot Camp twice a week. I eschew most junk food. I eat small portions and take pretty good care of my body. This body of mine has been pregnant four times, and has given birth three times. For that very reason alone, I believe that it kicks ass.
I am not apologizing for that word. I think God finds the visual of me kicking a donkey pretty funny. He has a good sense of humour, you know.
So back to me. In the closet. In front of the mirror.
I fell into that other fifteen percent. That head space where all that I could see were my flaws. My belly, though stretch-mark-free, was not in the form of a six-pack. My inner thigh is not the pencil-thin variety that I have coveted for as long as I can remember. My butt is no longer flat, thanks to Boot Camp, but that means it is bigger. And rounder.
In my head, I know that I am thin. I am at the lower end of the optimal BMI for my height and age. The scale has not changed from its acceptably low number. The tags on my clothes that state that the size I am are of the S/single-digit variety. I am a world away from the size 15 that I was in my early twenties.
But still. I struggle.
I wish that I didn’t. I wish that the eighty-five percent became one hundred percent. That I could exude confidence and comfort. That I could stop looking at myself in such a harsh light. I want to be an example to my daughter.
Then I think that maybe I am. Maybe, in my insecurity, I can show her that I am human too. That I see all of the pressure that is put onto women. That I, too, succumb to it sometimes.
But that we have the upper hand. We KNOW that God knit us in our mother’s womb. He created the Heavens and the Earth. He takes care of the sparrow…how much more does He care for us? It is mind boggling, really.
I can show her my humanity. We can hold hands, and work through it. I will not be the elusive Mother, but a Mommy who gets her. Who has been there. Who still fights the fight of body image, but who is finally winning. At least eighty-five percent of the time.
Who knows? Maybe by the time she is my age I can reach that one-hundred-percent.
Here’s hoping.
Being a woman is hard.
I am not talking about the “glass ceiling” or any other work-related item. I personally have not experienced said ceiling, and have found that in my profession (CA), women seem to have done alright.
I am talking about the issue of body image.
Women are bombarded daily with media images of air-brushed (and starving) celebrities. They are held up to be the ideal. They are the unattainable standard that we all strive to attain.
Reality hits and we realize that we cannot be as they “are”. We focus on our negative attributes. I wish that my inner thigh would high-tail it out of town. That my butt would transform from a billboard of vast expanse to a firm, tight, little mound of roundness. It is so very easy to focus on the flaws.
The media is quick to point them out, and I am a sucker to fall prey to the lie that all that I am is just not good enough.
I read an article recently that encouraged me to focus on the positives. Yes, I know that God created all of me to be beautiful, but sometimes I beg to differ. A little. Not so much as to encourage a lightning bolt, but a little.
I sat down and thought about it. What part of my physical appearance would I not change, no matter what? What physical attribute did I never complain about, or wish was different?
It was an easy answer. My eyes.
I have never once in my life wished that they were bluer, greener, or browner.
They have gotten me both into and out of trouble. I like them. A lot. I love them, even.
Tell me what feature that you love about yourself. I know that there has to be at least one.
(This was a BlogHer Initiative. I have been a little, um, preoccupied lately…but have been inspired by this topic. I may be a day late and a dollar short, but this has been on my heart. I could not help but write.)
You have never made it easy for me.
For as long as I can remember, I was referred to as a Big Girl. I was bigger than all of my friends. Taller, wider, thicker.
I was a regular kid who liked candy and Pop Shoppe pop. My Mom loved me to a fault. She did not want to deny me anything, for fear that I would choose my Dad over her. Any food, any treat, was mine to be had. I was never denied anything.
I have read a number of articles on the “nature versus nurture” debate.
“Experts” weigh in on what forms the character of your child.
Is it “nature“? Is it simply part of who you are and how you fit into the gender role that you have been born into?
Or is it “nurture“? That regardless of gender, you will be whatever you are surrounded with in your environment?
I may be no “expert”, but I have two boys and one girl. Based on that (limited) experience (and from talking to many other mothers), I think I know the answer.
Once upon a time there was a sweet baby girl.
She liked chocolate. (She still does.)
She grew a bit, and started flashing the cheesy smile that looks eerily like the one that her daughter now flashes.
(What is WITH that outfit??? Hello, seventies.)
