“I am bigger than all the other girls. I hate my thighs. My thighs are fat Mom. I want them to be smaller. Sometimes I think that when I am flying, my bases have a hard time lifting me up. I looked up how much you should weigh if you are five foot one, and it said 90 to 100 lbs. I am 106 pounds Mom. I have to lose weight.”
Deep breath. This was my twelve year old daughter, last night, as I lay by her side on her bed watching the tears flow down her cheeks. My beautiful, perfect, totally badass athlete of a daughter.
The tightness began in my chest as I desperately searched for the right words, thinking about my sister who had suffered from Bulimia all through high school. I decided to be quiet and just listen for a while. She had a lot to say to convince me, the one person she would never convince. We talked about healthy food. We talked about exercise and burning calories, and the science of how you lose weight, even though I didn’t want to go there.
All I wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs, “YOU ARE FUCKING BEAUTIFUL, PERFECT, GORGEOUS!” I wanted to tell her that I would DIE for her thighs. Her butt. Her perfect, amazing, strong, body that can now do a back handspring. A back fucking handspring!
When I leaned in this direction she stopped me. She shut me up. She made me listen to her some more. And I did. I reminded her that she is a year older than everyone in her class (She is. She missed Kindergarten start by a month way back then.) She wouldn’t have it, or most of the other things I tried to say to change her made up mind.
My thighs are fat.
Fuck.
I have made it a point not to trash talk myself or my body in front of my kids, mostly because I actually have come to love my athletic body, the body who’s calves don’t fit into normal tall boots. The body that doesn’t look right in certain clothes I wish I could wear, or the one who’s belly skin wiggles with the evidence of babies.
My body is awesome. It works. It does things I never thought it could do. It is amazing. I channel my friend Karen Schachter, our favorite empowerer of girls, and I try to stay with these positive thoughts when I am talking to my daughter about her body too. Remind her of what it does right. What it can do that others can’t. She gets quieter. I can tell she is letting that come in.
We have spent more nights than I would like to admit this way, tears falling, thoughts of tinier thighs being the goal. I try to remember that it isn’t my job to fix this or come up with my solution. It is my job to listen and to love, fat thighs and all. What if your thighs were fat? I wonder if I should ask. Then what?
I take another deep breath and encourage her to sleep, to dream, to be okay with her body for now. I walk out and pause at the door, turning back to watch her pull the purple covers up to her chin, wiping her cheeks, and settling in. I wonder if I am doing this right. I wonder how I can do it better.
I look down at my own amazing, muscular thighs, the ones that run and kick and jump and play hard, all at the young age of almost 47. Yeah, maybe it would be nice if they were slimmer, if I could fit into those skinny jeans one day…but Hell, I wouldn’t give these babies up for anything! And I know that my daughter will come to love hers one day too. That her journey will bring her back to loving herself, and everything she was given.
In the mean time I will practice listening and being a mom who remembers to love her own body every day, if even for the simple purpose of showing my daughter that “perfect” thighs come in ALL shapes and sizes.
