Dear “Shallow Mommy” Club Member,
I’m not antisocial. Introverted, definitely. Antisocial, not so much.
I spend a lot of time sitting by myself at our daughters’ practices and games. I am not holding back because I’m afraid to talk to you and your crew, but because I’ve overheard enough of your conversations to know that I have no desire to have any sort of meaningful interaction with you.
I promise that I don’t eavesdrop, at least not intentionally. It was kind of hard to not hear the squeals of salutation as one of your herd takes her seat among you in the stands behind me:
“HI FALLULAH! WOW, YOU LOOK REALLY SKINNY TODAY!”
I nearly choked on my own disbelief. The way Fallulah’s reaction sputtered, I’m pretty sure she felt the same way. That’s how you greet a friend? This person who, at roughly 5’ 6” tall, probably weighs about 110 pounds soaking wet with her clothes and shoes on? She looks skinny every day. Turn her sideways and the woman practically disappears. That day was no different than any other. But more importantly – really? This is the way you say hi – by exclaiming your gleeful approval over her size in front of everyone within earshot?
I’m going to try that kind of greeting some time with my own friends and see how it goes.
“Well hey there, Beulah Mae! Ohh-emm-gee, your ass is looking mighty Kardashian today! Have you started hitting the Twinkies again? They’re really working for you, girl!”
“I say, Ethel. Your gargantuan feet normally look like a pair of shipwrecked canoes trying to race each other across the pavement but they suddenly seem proportionate to the rest of your body on this particular day!”
Hmm. I think I’ll just stick with my usual “hello.”
It makes me really sad that this is the example you’re setting for your daughter, Friend-Of-Skinny. Mind if I call you that? You’re pretty thin, yourself, so I guess that Skinny-Friend-Of-Skinnier might fit you a little better. Do you realize all the subtle ways you’re inadvertently teaching your daughter that waifishness is something to be prized, that a walking bag of antlers is what every girl should aspire to become?
Look, we’re all raising our daughters and trying our best to get them ready for the big, bad world as well as we know how. At this point, it seems as though body insecurity has become an unfortunate and innate characteristic within all of us, a trait that’s been willfully bred into our DNA by generations of people who think the way you do, Skinny-Friend-Of-Skinnier. You know, I just can’t picture a Native American woman roaming the Great Plains 400 years ago, seeing her reflection in a lake and saying to herself, “Ugh, this deerskin makes me look like an overfed sack of maize. Guess I need to lay off the peyote, the midnight munchies are totally killing my figure.”
I sound bitter, I know I do. That’s because my nine-year-old began calling herself “fat” at age seven. SEVEN. Why? Her little girl friends at school told her that she was. Those girls told her she needed to start bringing celery to school instead of a sandwich, when the majority of the food she ate in any given day were fruits and vegetables to begin with. Where do you think girls learn those kinds of ideas at such an early age?
You guessed it: Mommy.
My youngest is a strongly built girl, I’ll give you that much. Has been since birth. As a baby, we nicknamed her “Dozer” and with good reason – she was a solid mass of infant who spewed forth out of my horrified nethers, big giant (and perfectly round) head first. Like a bulldozer. She looked like a cesarean baby, that’s how round her head was. I still don’t know how the hell I managed to walk again after that, but I digress. My twelve-year-old daughter has already surpassed my height, weight, and shoe size. We just grow them big, I guess. Genetics and whatnot.
Do you have any idea how difficult it has been for me to help my girls stay confident about their bodies? I have to constantly remind myself to not complain out loud on those bloated days when I feel I’m at my most bovine. When I don’t think my boobs are sitting properly beneath a fitted shirt – even though to the rest of the world they are perfectly lovely looking, I’m sure – I have to quell the urge to throw on the biggest sweatshirt that I own because I feel like I’m some sort of grossly misshapen hosebeast. I’m 5’5” and I wear a size 10. What the fuck is wrong with me that I should feel like that about my body? Why do I mentally admonish myself that way?
I have done – and will continue to do – my very best to instill in my daughters the truth that they are beautiful people, inside and out. When they begin to feel insecure about their bodies, I gently remind them that overall health is what’s most important. Eating well. Getting some exercise. Taking proper care of yourself. Keeping a positive attitude. It’s okay that we have narrower waists and wider hips – flaunt those things, babies!
(Well, don’t flaunt them just yet. “Be proud but dress very modestly until you’re 30 and allowed to start dating,” that’s what I always tell my girls.)
Everyone is built differently, kiddos. Some of us just can’t rock those skinny jeans. So… we wear curvier jeans instead. And they look great. I still have to cling to those reminders, myself. I’m pushing 40. One would think that I shouldn’t need them by now; being a woman of the world – I should know better, right? Maybe it’s an internal battle we’re stuck fighting for life, simply because we are women and the war is in our genes. And in our jeans.
We’re in the stands together again today, as we are so often are, Skinny-Friend-Of-Skinnier. Close, and yet so far apart. Your daughter is playing well on the field, as is mine. They both look like they’re having fun out there, don’t they? You, on the other hand, are as vapid as ever. I wish nothing but good luck once your little girl hits puberty – she’s really going to need it.
* Names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty so we will just call this author: Bitchy McStretchyPants
{This ‘Best of Blunt Moms’ post was first published in October 2014}