My brother has a theory that everyone’s earliest memory involves a traumatic or negative experience.
In my first memory, I’m lying on the bathroom floor at my grandparents’ house in Castro Valley, CA. My head is on the shag rug and I can see the pink porcelain bathtub out of the corner of my eye. My mom is changing my diaper, so I couldn’t have been much older than two.
My mom was one of the original hippies who made her own bread with whole wheat, fed us carob instead of chocolate, and owned moon shoes at one point. She and my dad were strong supporters of the public library and the only TV we were allowed to watch was a half hour of Mr. Rogers. On occasion, we could watch a half hour of Sesame Street as well, but only if dinner was taking longer to cook than intended. We were cloth diaper kids.
On this day, however, I was in a disposable diaper.
I distinctly remember a sharp pain as the diaper was pulled from my inner thighs to be removed and seeing red marks where the edges had been cutting into my tender toddler legs. And I remember thinking “my thighs are too fat for this diaper.”
At two years old, I was ashamed of my body.
Even though my house was absent of a strong media presence, I grew up aware that my large, unconventional body was not ideal and tried to hide it behind baggy clothes.
Visits to the doctor’s office, where my weight was spoken about in hushed, concerned tones, didn’t help.
I struggled with body image throughout adolescence and young adulthood. I dieted and exercised and binged and counted points and bought a Fitbit and dieted some more. Four years into my marriage and during graduate school, I lost forty pounds, dyed my hair blonde, and for the first time in my life felt a modicum of self-confidence.
Soon after I became pregnant with our oldest daughter and 17 months later had her sister. Needless to say, I gained back those 40 pounds and then some.
Very early on, my husband and I agreed that we needed to be very careful about how we talked about our own bodies in front of our children. No “I’m so fat” comments or disdainful pinching of flabby areas.
When we first moved to Kansas, the girls were one and two. Unaccustomed to the hot, humid summers here, we sought refuge at the YMCA water parks. Each trip I found myself carrying the baby on a hip and chasing after the toddler with fake self-assuredness as my white, dimpled, post-partum body was on display for all of greater Wichita. Inside I was embarrassed and mortified, but I would be damned if I remained hot and sweaty one second longer.
And thus, a tradition was started. Each summer we get hot and sweaty and find ourselves headed to the Y for a swim. Every year the girls get older and taller and pretty soon I won’t need to get in the pool with them. Which is pretty ironic, since I have finally made peace with this strong, capable body of mine.
I’m not sure I can pinpoint when exactly the change occurred. Maybe it was the decrease in negative talk after my girls were born. Maybe it’s that now I care more about creating memories and experiences than meeting a superficial standard.
Or maybe it’s that I finally see myself through my daughters’ eyes.
A few summers ago, we all went swimsuit shopping. The three of us were crowded into the changing room and my daughters “helped” by taking all the suits off the hangers. As I began this dreaded process, my underwear poked out the bottom of each possibility, creating weird, extra folds on my thighs and belly. Some of the tops were a bad fit and the fluorescent lights accentuated the rolls cascading down my back.
And yet, with each new suit I tried, my girls would exclaim “that looks so pretty!” or “oooooo, so fashionable!” Their comments were pure and honest and they didn’t see the flaws that I was so quick to fixate upon.
What a gift I was given that day.
I have these two beautiful, precious girls who will undoubtedly have their own complicated relationships with their bodies. But for now, I’m doing my best to help them love who they are, bodies and all. I try to provide nutritious foods and encourage lots of physical play. I try not to comment on how they look, rather praise them for what their bodies have helped them accomplish, such as running fast, or doing a straight-legged cartwheel.
My girls are now 7 and 9 and I’m very aware that lots of physical changes are coming our way. I know there will lots of struggles and a huge learning curve as we navigate puberty. But, one things I know for certain: we’ll keep having fun swimming together this summer and for many summers to come.
