I Spy a Muffin Top..

A few days ago, I was playing a game of I Spy with Iris when she said, “ I spy something beautiful”. After listing everything I could think of, I told her “I give up” and asked her what she had spied...

“YOU, silly!” she said proudly.

It was super-adorable and sweet of her to say that. It made me smile and I laughed a happy laugh.

But, the truth is, I don’t see it.

You see, lately I have been really struggling with how I see my (now two years postpartum) body. After two kids, I am definitely having a hard time with my new shape, larger pant size, and various new places that jiggle. Don’t get me wrong I love my body for what it has done for me. It grew and birthed two healthy, beautiful babies and I was able to nurse those babies easily, and I am grateful and blah blah blah, but in terms of how it now looks? I am really not happy with it at all.

I mean it’s not like I think I am some kind of hideous beast or anything like that, it’s just, I wouldn’t necessarily describe myself as beautiful. I would describe my body as it is now with phrases like: “Not so much”, “Hard Pass”, “Swipe Left” you get the idea. 

I like to joke around that if my body were a rental property, after what having two babies did to it, there’d be no way I’d ever get my deposit back.

But, all joking aside, not liking how my body looks consumes my thoughts and challenges me almost daily.

I joined weight watchers a little while ago but the initial 4 pounds I lost seems to be all that wants to come off, and that is equal parts defeating and frustrating.

Before I had kids, I always assumed I would be one of those women who’s pregnancy weight would fall right off with breast feeding, because that is what everyone tells you will happen. But that was not, and has not, been the case for me. The “Baby Weight” appears to be here to stay, at least until I stop nursing.

Anyway, regardless of how I feel about my body, I had been really trying to keep it out of earshot from Iris. She’s too young to know about all the crappy beauty standards that are out there in the world, and she is definitely too young to know that lately I am totally buying into them. And I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if she learned how to hate her body because of me hating my own. And I also don’t want her to get the idea that a postpartum body or gaining a little weight is anything to be ashamed of, because, it isn’t at all.

I hadn’t been too worried about any of that because I thought I was pretty good at hiding my whimpers of disappointment when I’d see myself in the mirror.

But then…

Getting ready for bed a few nights after our I Spy game, she asked me if her tummy was fat. Shocked and saddened to hear her ask that kind of question, I assured her that, no her tummy is not fat, and told her over and over, in spades, that she is wonderful and beautiful just as she is, and her body is perfect as it is, because, it is hers.

I also reminded her that “fat” is a bad word in our home.

She looked at me very confused and said, “But YOU say it about your tummy all the time.”

Shhhiiiiiiiittttttt.

 “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t say things like that.” I told her.

Then, in this very matter of fact tone she said, “Don’t say sorry to me, say sorry to your tummy, what you said was not nice.”

There you have it, I got schooled by a six year old.  

I mean, she’s right. And all of the other body-positive women I am inspired by are right. My body is beautiful. I should praise it and not call parts of it mean names. I should be proud of it and show it off and embrace it.

But… I just cannot get into that mentality. Well, wait, I guess sometimes I can, but not all the time definitely not as much as I should. 

It’s especially hard when I am getting dressed, or catching a glimpse of myself in a storefront window. The worst is seeing candid pictures taken by friends. Rather than smile about the special moment that was captured, I am laser focused on what I see, my million imperfections. God Almighty, is that really what I look like?

I feel such guilt for feeling the way I do. I feel like in my not liking my body, I am betraying my daughter. She looks up to me. And if she’s looking at me while I have this terrible perception about my body, what kind of message am I sending her?

It is important to me that she knows that now and forever, she is more than a picture of herself that she doesn’t like, that she is more than the number on the scale or on the tag of her jeans. Those things are not at all what makes a woman who she is or determines her value.

But in order for her to believe it about herself, I need to believe it about myself, too.

And that is the most challenging part: Believing it about myself.  

I really wish it wasn’t challenging for me, but it is.

I know, that ten years from now, when I am looking at pictures of myself from this moment, I will think that I look great and I will say what a sillygoose I was for making such a big fuss about something like this. In fact, in just writing this, I am cringing at my vanity and am somewhat embarrassed that I feel this way.

So maybe, that’s a good thing? 

See? Writing it all down helps me realize when I am being a dorkypine. 

I so want the story of my body and I to be like “The Cutting Edge”; two total opposites that abhor each other but then they fall in love and go on to win an Olympic Gold Medal.

Will that happen? Who knows? But I am willing to do my best to get that “ending”, not just for me to have a healthy self-image (and to be done with all of this nonsense), but for her to see me having one too.

I may not always see in me, what Iris sees, but she sees something, and in the smallest way, I am starting to see it too. And maybe that’s the only happy ending I need for right now, or maybe it isn’t the ending at all; maybe it’s just the beginning.