Pages

9.17.2009

Roll Model

Last night my 7-year-old daughter told me she "wants to die" because she hates the way she looks.

She hates that her "thighs jiggle".

She hates that her "belly sticks out".

She hates that she's "the biggest girl" in her class.

She wants to die and she's seven.

I've been waiting for this moment since the day I gave birth to a daughter. The day she inevitably starts hating herself. And here it was.

I felt sick. I still do. But, I was prepared.

Had this been any other night I would have sputtered and stammered for an appropriate response vacillating between understanding compassion and helpless frustration.

But THANK GOD I just happened to be up until 1:30 a.m. the night before reading an amazing book about how to raise confident daughters.

I immediately went into action.

I got down on my knees and took both her hands in mine. I looked at this gorgeous innocent little girl. The baby that I nursed the sleep. The toddler who gave herself kisses in the mirror, she loved herself so much.

This little girl who now needs to be led through the landmines of adolescence.

This little girl who will grow into the woman I shape.

I looked into her big green eyes and said "You're the most beautiful second grader in the whole world. Daddy and I love you very much and we will do whatever we can to make you feel better."

It was almost verbatim from the book. Give her hope, not answers.

She looked startled by my intensity. She immediately relaxed a little. Then she said quietly "I like myself. But then I look at other girls and think they're prettier and then I don't like myself anymore."

I can't tell her not to feel that way. I can't dismiss feelings she has at seven that I continue to struggle with at 32. I can't divulge that she will likely always battle with feeling this way. That this is being a girl. The constant struggle to love ourselves as we are while at the same time trying to figure out who that is.

I see being a girl in this world through her eyes all over agan - perfect models, plastic surgery, anorexia, bulimia, diet pills, suicide - and it shakes me to the core. I want a different world for her.

I remember being 12 years old. Sitting on my mom's bed as she folded laundry, I had just returned from the beach and I was complaning about my chubby body. I had spent the day in the sand under a towel eating all the snacks, completely intimidated by the bikinis around me.

My mom said all the right things ("you're beautiful...I was just like you at your age...it's baby fat"). Then I said the one thing that made her turn and look at me.

"But there are girls with perfect bodies."

I'll never forget. She looked at me with sadness. As if I had just discovered the secret she had been keeping from me. She said quietly and with great empathy "I know."

I don't know what I took away from that. But I felt like I saw something about my mother for the first time. My mother was a beautiful woman herself. But as often as she told me I was beautiful. I don't ever remember hearing her say she was.

And I can't say Savannah's story with her mother is much different.

How often has she heard me complain to my friends, my husband, my mother about my jeans not fitting, how much weight I've gained, foods I'm avoiding? How many times have I snapped at her in a fit of frustration because I'm once again naked in my closet throwing clothes around as if it's the end of the world that I'm up a size?

How confusing must it be for me to then turn to her and tell her to love herself as she is?

It stops today.

I knelt there in the bathroom in front of her, my baby. And I flashed on a quote from the book. Self-esteem can't be taught. You can talk all you want to your daughter, but it must be gained. Through accomplishments.

So I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. "Do you want to take singing lessons?"

A smile immediately appeared. She brightened up. Yes! I'm a great singer, mommy!

With that, she turned to get ready for her bath, chirping to her dolls along the way. All was well again.

The next morning I decided to do something that always makes me feel beautiful. I took a yoga class. I pulled on some spandex, drove to the gym, and planted myself in front of the mirror to admire the 20 pounds I've put on since my last class 4 years ago.

I started to go through the stretches, reaching my arms to the sky, arching my back, feeling strong in my core.

By the end of the hour I lay there, eyes closed, as I followed the relaxation instructions. I let my breathing slow, I let my mind relax. I felt such pride and tenderness for myself. Because for the first time I was seeing my body as I wish for my daughter to see hers.

I refuse to send my daughter out into the world feeling less than. I refuse. Not without a fight.

Helpless to stop them, tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt strong. I felt beautiful.

And I pledged to bring that feeling home with me.



***************************
Dear kind emailers, the title misspelling was intentional. Clearly a FAIL at word play.

9.08.2009

Unfriending Is Awkward When You're Not On Facebook

We sort of make a big deal out of our anniversary every year. Our entire family gets together at a designated house and we do a ridiculously massive gift exchange (sound familiar? We call it Anniversary-mas). I will share photographic evidence as soon as I figure out how to transfer the photos to my new fancy netbook (Chris? Keep rockin like you do with the kickass gifts.)

Anyhoo, this year our anniversary celebration overlapped with the day that Savannah's class list is posted for an hour enlightening us with which teacher she will have for second grade. Also (small voice) what bitches I'll have to deal with.

Since our school district is now practicing "looping", where teachers try to advance along with their students thereby minimizing the changes and challenges for the kids, I was pretty confident that Savannah would keep the same teacher and the same class. We had been "warned" that some teachers may feel it necessary to move some students around to teachers "better suited for the child's needs" (read: I'm about to lose it on this kid). But other than that caveat it seemed second grade would be a nice carbon copy of first.

Chris had to work anyway so he was forced gracious enough
to stay in town an extra day and while he was at it, cruise by Savannah's school and see what awaited us on Tuesday.

I anxiously awaited Chris' phone call Friday.

At 2:02 p.m. the phone rang.

"She has Mrs. Teacher again."


"Oh, awesome."
I responded, a mouth full of caramel corn.

"There's more."

I swallowed hard.


"Macy's kids are in her class."

"...WHAT THE HELL?!"

Macy is Girl B.

The mom who pretended to be my best friend all through kindergarten.

The mom who pretended to be my ally while the much more transparent Girl C viciously tried to exclude me from everything .

The mom who I hung out with every day for nearly a year.

The mom who knew she was my only friend in our brand new town.

The mom whose daughter was Savannah's best friend.

The mom who fed me all the dirty details of how much Girl C hated me...in the interest of "just letting me know".

The mom who had a Mother's Day party in her back yard. One month before summer started. And didn't invite me. But did invite Girl C.

And her backyard was across the street from my house.

So that I got to watch the party.

And so did my daughter.

That mom.


The mom who acted surprised that I was hurt.

The mom who, after I cried to her, responded by literally turning her back on me every day at school.

The mom whose husband started ignoring my husband.

The mom who completely cut my daughter off from her best friend.

Without warning. Without explanation.

The mom who, after being one of my closest friends, now goes out of her way to avoid me while I do the same.

Macy is a Mean Girl all grown up. A Mean Mom.

The gray hairs may be sprouting and the ass may be spreading and the prom queen photo may be fading. But mean is forever.

I was sick over this news. First grade had been so pleasant and now what was I in for? I wondered how I should act toward her. Should I be nice? Hug her? Ignore her? Push her down? Wish her a happy 50th? ...She's 43.

These thoughts ran through my head as Savannah and I approached the school playground this morning.

And then as soon as Savannah's friends caught sight of her, she was literally swarmed. She ran to meet them, their little faces lit up with the joy of friendship.

These are little girls that have fought, that have been mean, that have said "you're not my friend anymore". But, now all is forgiven and forgotten. The time and distance provided by the summer break has renewed their fondness for each other.

I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I could take a lesson from my 7-year-old. Maybe by focusing on this genuine kindness I could actually pull my head out of my ass.


I saw Macy standing to the side watching them too. I walked up to her, put a smile on my face, cheerfully said "hi!", she said "hi!" pleasantly back, and then I proceeded on to my friends. And that was it. No passive aggressive behavior. No cutting comments made with a smile. Just polite and mature.

It's like I'm actually growing up.

And I have my 7-year-old to thank.


The world might be a better place if we all remembered how we felt at seven.

 photo copyright.jpg
envye template.