Body Image

I went to pick up my son from daycare the other night.  Before I could even get out of the car, he came down the ramp to me.  I was happy with this.  Usually he gets so irritated that I am even there to pick him up because I am interrupting his fun.  But not this day.  He was actually eager enough to see me.  But then I saw that he was only wearing one shoe. 

“What happened?” I asked.

“Now Mom, don’t get mad,” he said.  And I realized that this was usually when some elaborate story came out that caused something bad to happen, and it usually ended up with him losing an article of clothing or being given a detention or coming home with a note that says he stuffed something up his nose and they still can’t find it.

“Do I even want to know?” I sighed, and couldn’t resist letting the smile in me rise to the surface.  He looked scared for a second, but upon seeing my smile he relaxed into a grin.  “What’d you do, kick your shoe up on the roof of a building?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” he said.  “I was kicking a soccer ball, and my shoe came off, and then it flew up onto the roof.” 

I sighed again.

“Come on, get in the car.  We’re going to need to go shoe shopping.  We have to get some clothes for your sister, anyway.”

I dragged the kids up and down the aisles of Target, my son limping along behind me with only one shoe. I found him some shoes, and then found some clothes for my daughter.  Somehow, some clothes that were my size also found there way into my shopping cart.  I had no choice but to try them on as well.  I made my son sit on the floor outside the room while my daughter and I tried on our clothes in our own separate rooms.  And in between yelling at my son to stop kicking the door and wall, I squeezed into the pair of pants that looked really cute on the rack.  I hopped up and down and finally pulled them up, zipping and buttoning them before they changed their mind and stopped fitting.  And from the front, they were very flattering.  I liked the color, the way they went straight down, the way the thread lined the sides.  I turned around and checked them from behind.  What I saw was not mine.  It was too large and not firm enough to be mine.  How the heck did that get there?  That was not my derriere.

I put a long shirt on over the pants to see if that would help.  It didn’t.  My stomach was spilling out over the pants and was now accentuated by this form-fitting shirt.  I tried a sweater top over the shirt, and now the problem was exasperated.  The past few weeks of straying from my diet were taking its toll, all weight I had lost and firmness I had gained were now nonexistent.  And here I was, back at square one.  I took all the clothes off and put them back on hangers, then put my old clothes back on.  I couldn’t get new clothes when my body looked like this.

Next door, my daughter was still trying on clothes.  She had wrinkled her nose at so many things, but I asked her to keep an open mind.  Some things she wouldn’t show me, insisting they were too small.  One pair of pants made the cut, and another shirt was really cute yet slightly too small.  We opted to get the next size up.  We went back out and got some more clothes for her to try on.  I asked if I could come hang out by her dressing room so I could see everything.

“Mom!  NO!” she insisted.  She had been humoring me for most of the trip.  I knew this wasn’t her thing. But she needed new clothes in a bad way.  And I appreciated the effort she was putting forth at trying on clothes and not complaining too much.  I could also tell she was nearing her limit. 

“Ok, I’ll just be here by the door in case you need me,” I told her, trying not to be too overbearing, yet not being able to stop my attempts at making things easier for her.  I knew that my presence was having the opposite effect, but I just couldn’t help it. 

I stood there for several minutes, and was sure she’d probably tried on everything when I asked her how she was doing. 

“Well, if I suck in, the largest size will fit,” she said.  Her voice gave the impression that she was trying to make light of this.  But I could hear the frustration in her voice. 

“Honey, can you open the door please?  Let me see,” I said.

“NO!” she repeated forcefully.

“If we just make some adjustments, I know it will be ok.  You just need to adjust that one strap, and it will fit, I promise.”

“Mom, can we just go?”

And just like that, I realized we had reached the end.  She opened the door and I stepped in to access the clothes.  Only one of them had been touched, the rest of them hung neatly up on the hook.

“Did you only try this one on?” I asked.  And I saw that her eyes were red rimmed and she was fighting back tears.  She nodded.  “Do you want to do this another day?” I asked.  She nodded again.  “Ok, let’s just put all these back and go eat.”  It was nearing 7:30 pm, and I was famished.  I could sense that she was too.

We paid for our items and then settled in at the store’s Pizza Hut.  The kids each got a mini pizza, and I got a salad.  I looked up the calories on my phone and inwardly groaned when I saw that my salad was still 500 calories.

“Mom, after this weekend, can we please not eat out anymore?” my daughter asked me as I went over this weekend’s plans of going to Olive Garden for dinner to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday.  And I could sense even more clearly what was going on.  Her brother went to the bathroom, and I took the opportunity to talk about the issue at hand.

“Did you want to stop trying on clothes because you didn’t like the way your body looked?” I asked her. Her eyes brimmed again with tears as she nodded. 

“I’m just tired of being fat.”

“Oh honey,” I said.  I knew I couldn’t just tell her that she wasn’t fat, she wouldn’t believe it coming from her mom. Her body was just going through the natural changes of being a little girl to a teenager, and she was developing natural curves that weren’t so natural to her.   Not only that, but her body had been gearing up for a growth spurt that I knew was going to happen within the next year.  But until then she was forced to feel disproportionate.  And it was hard to hang out with all her friends who were mere pixies of girls and not feel like a giant.

And of course, there is her witness to my own constant fight with weight, counting calories, and getting enough exercise.  Her father also has his own struggles with weight, coming from a family that leans on the heavier side.   In my household, I try and promote healthier eating, avoiding diets that limit foods and nutrients I need.   But I feel guilty knowing that every time she watches me read a label before I eat anything, and every time she sees me look in the mirror with a frown on my face, I might be encouraging a food complex in her. 

Once in the car, her brother preoccupied in the back seat, I told her the story of me. I could relate to all of her feelings about her body.  When I was younger, I held onto my baby-fat longer than most kids.  I had been awkwardly chubby next to all my slender classmates.  I didn’t go outside to run and play as much as I should have, more content to spend the afternoon in my bedroom with my nose in a book.  My younger sister, the one I constantly compared myself to, was always active and thin.  I felt like a big thumb.  My feet grew too big.  So did my nose.  My face broke out.  My thighs touched.  I wore baggy clothes all the way through high school, anything that would hide my shape.  My hair became oily.  My eyebrows were too thick.  My lips were too thin.  My hair was too brown and too straight.  Every single flaw on me was flashing like a neon sign, everyone was looking at me, I was just a big fat loser.

I was a tweener.

We shared some of our things we felt most self conscious about.  And we shared some of the things we were most proud of about ourselves.  She was proud of her accomplishments at school for the President’s Fitness Challenge: the fact that she was flexible enough to reach past her toes, and that she could now run/walk a mile even faster than she ever had before.  I promised her that we would go to the Olive Garden on Sunday with our choices already picked out, and let her know that it is very possible to eat at restaurants and still have healthy choices.  

So how do you have a balance?  I know that part of it is smart choices at every meal (like pizza, an unnecessary yet delicious treat).  But how do you undo damage that has been done to your own body and promote healthiness in your child without instilling body image disorders?  Because I don’t want to forgo watching what I eat, I want to be fit and healthy.  And I want my daughter to be fit and healthy.  But more than anything, I want my daughter to know she’s beautiful, now and always, at every size and shape.

And I also really, really want my son to actually outgrow a pair of shoes before I have to buy him another pair.