So, my daughter was busily getting ready for school. It was one of “those” mornings where I could tell I was going to have to nag her about getting to the bus on time. I’m trying to look as if I’m casually loading laundry when what I’m REALLY doing is monitoring her progress. It’s then I catch a glimpse of her scrutinizing herself in the mirror, “Uh oh.” I think, “here we go.”
The tape she plays in her head is almost audible: “too fat, too thin, to short, too tall, too curly, too straight, too baggy, too loose, too this, too that...” To me, she’s perfect. I offer an overly enthusiastic “Good morning!” Wrong! “My legs are puffy today! My hair looks terrible and now my face is breaking out! And I wash it twice a day just like YOU said, too, but nothing works!!!”
Sigh…remember? My heart sinks for her. Every mama-bear button is activated in me to spare her of the endless self-criticism. I see her and am as breathless at the sight of her today as the day she was born. She is beautiful. She is perfect. No, not movie star perfect, it’s her essence that makes her appearance lovely (puffy legs, zits and all).
She comes to breakfast, sullen faced, sitting in front of her Kashi. “Something on your mind?” I ask. Silence. Deep breath. It’s mom-time. I already know she’s going to miss the bus today and I’ll drop her off as I go to my meeting. Her face scrunches up, tears start to come and she begins to describe the intensity of self-loathing. I can see she is feeling defeated by the impossible standards of beauty set up in our culture.
I put my arms around her and, surprisingly, cry with her. But my reasons are totally different. I want to erase the spoils from her mind the media images about beauty, the mean spirited remarks others make to puff up themselves. I want so much for all young girls to embrace how beautiful they already are. My heart is broken for her because beauty is a battle never won. I want her to feel about herself just like she did in the days of a wearing purple tutu and rain boots to the grocery store - uninhibited, not out to prove anything to the world. She just felt pretty. Simple as that.
And in that moment, I realize that it’s only because I am pushing 50 that I can let go of the decades of my own “too fat, too thin, to short, too tall, too curly, too straight, too baggy, too loose, too this, too that...” I can let go of it. But she can’t. She’s not there yet.
So, I tell her to stay right there. I quickly rummage through a box tucked in my closet of old photos still meant for a photo album years later. And I found it. That cherished photo of her when she was 3 in her purple tutu and rain boots. I show it to her now puffy face and stuffy nose from crying. “Remember that little girl?”
I see a smile stretch across her face. “I remember those boots!” I asked her if she would tell that little girl she was “too fat, too thin, to short, too tall, too curly, too straight, too baggy, too loose, too this, too that...” And her response was “No! That would be mean. She’s fine just the way she is even if she is wearing rain boots and it’s sunny and 80 degrees! She looks totally cute!”
And the light bulb clicked on. Her face relaxed. “Oh, that’s probably how you feel about me right now, right?” From there, we springboarded into an insightful conversation about body image and beauty. She voiced her struggles with herself as I tried to explain the media falsehoods. I tried to help her redirect her beauty aspirations toward attainable goals: a healthy body inside and out, what body type really means and finally, acceptance.
Then she busted me wide open. “Are you happy with your body?” And I had to be honest. “No, baby, I’m not. I’ve put on a few pounds since your dad died. Well, okay more than a few…” “Yeah, you sure have!” “Okay, okaaay! I know and I’m not thrilled about it.” “Well, then, why don’t you do something about it? Do you want to go through the rest of your life being unhappy with the way you look? That seems like a lot of wasted effort.” Direct hit between they eyes that I am ROLE MODELING and better get my act together.
I looked at her with that mom-look. We both smiled. She looked in the mirror as she packed up her things. “Well, okay, my legs aren’t puffy, they’re just muscular. I know I don’t have a dainty body like a ballerina. And you said I have Daddy’s hair and I liked his hair. Did Daddy have muscular legs? Did you used to?”
We could have done without that question…
I drove her to school. She missed 1st period, I was late to my meeting. As she got out of the car she said “Thanks, Mom.”
I knew what I had to do. I broke up with my long time boyfriend Dark Chocolate and after work, went to the gym. J.Lo may look bootylicious, but at my age, it’s just junk in the trunk.
She came home from school that day all smiles. Two weeks later she passed by me and said “Hey, Mom! I think your butt looks smaller! High Five!”
Wait a minute! Who’s teaching whom here?
The tape she plays in her head is almost audible: “too fat, too thin, to short, too tall, too curly, too straight, too baggy, too loose, too this, too that...” To me, she’s perfect. I offer an overly enthusiastic “Good morning!” Wrong! “My legs are puffy today! My hair looks terrible and now my face is breaking out! And I wash it twice a day just like YOU said, too, but nothing works!!!”
Sigh…remember? My heart sinks for her. Every mama-bear button is activated in me to spare her of the endless self-criticism. I see her and am as breathless at the sight of her today as the day she was born. She is beautiful. She is perfect. No, not movie star perfect, it’s her essence that makes her appearance lovely (puffy legs, zits and all).
She comes to breakfast, sullen faced, sitting in front of her Kashi. “Something on your mind?” I ask. Silence. Deep breath. It’s mom-time. I already know she’s going to miss the bus today and I’ll drop her off as I go to my meeting. Her face scrunches up, tears start to come and she begins to describe the intensity of self-loathing. I can see she is feeling defeated by the impossible standards of beauty set up in our culture.
I put my arms around her and, surprisingly, cry with her. But my reasons are totally different. I want to erase the spoils from her mind the media images about beauty, the mean spirited remarks others make to puff up themselves. I want so much for all young girls to embrace how beautiful they already are. My heart is broken for her because beauty is a battle never won. I want her to feel about herself just like she did in the days of a wearing purple tutu and rain boots to the grocery store - uninhibited, not out to prove anything to the world. She just felt pretty. Simple as that.
And in that moment, I realize that it’s only because I am pushing 50 that I can let go of the decades of my own “too fat, too thin, to short, too tall, too curly, too straight, too baggy, too loose, too this, too that...” I can let go of it. But she can’t. She’s not there yet.
So, I tell her to stay right there. I quickly rummage through a box tucked in my closet of old photos still meant for a photo album years later. And I found it. That cherished photo of her when she was 3 in her purple tutu and rain boots. I show it to her now puffy face and stuffy nose from crying. “Remember that little girl?”
I see a smile stretch across her face. “I remember those boots!” I asked her if she would tell that little girl she was “too fat, too thin, to short, too tall, too curly, too straight, too baggy, too loose, too this, too that...” And her response was “No! That would be mean. She’s fine just the way she is even if she is wearing rain boots and it’s sunny and 80 degrees! She looks totally cute!”
And the light bulb clicked on. Her face relaxed. “Oh, that’s probably how you feel about me right now, right?” From there, we springboarded into an insightful conversation about body image and beauty. She voiced her struggles with herself as I tried to explain the media falsehoods. I tried to help her redirect her beauty aspirations toward attainable goals: a healthy body inside and out, what body type really means and finally, acceptance.
Then she busted me wide open. “Are you happy with your body?” And I had to be honest. “No, baby, I’m not. I’ve put on a few pounds since your dad died. Well, okay more than a few…” “Yeah, you sure have!” “Okay, okaaay! I know and I’m not thrilled about it.” “Well, then, why don’t you do something about it? Do you want to go through the rest of your life being unhappy with the way you look? That seems like a lot of wasted effort.” Direct hit between they eyes that I am ROLE MODELING and better get my act together.
I looked at her with that mom-look. We both smiled. She looked in the mirror as she packed up her things. “Well, okay, my legs aren’t puffy, they’re just muscular. I know I don’t have a dainty body like a ballerina. And you said I have Daddy’s hair and I liked his hair. Did Daddy have muscular legs? Did you used to?”
We could have done without that question…
I drove her to school. She missed 1st period, I was late to my meeting. As she got out of the car she said “Thanks, Mom.”
I knew what I had to do. I broke up with my long time boyfriend Dark Chocolate and after work, went to the gym. J.Lo may look bootylicious, but at my age, it’s just junk in the trunk.
She came home from school that day all smiles. Two weeks later she passed by me and said “Hey, Mom! I think your butt looks smaller! High Five!”
Wait a minute! Who’s teaching whom here?
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