Skinny

My Precious Child, 

There is something that has been bothering me more and more lately. I just can't shake it. It's a simple expression, often said nonchalantly in lighthearted conversation, but it bothers me to my core. "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." That's what they say. They being women. Beautiful women. Strong women. Smart women. Women I love and care about. Women who you would never expect to be fixated on such petty things as thigh gaps and waist measurements.

But they are. And I am... or I have been. Never in my life have I been thin, skinny, or any other synonym of the sort. I have my father's thighs and my mother's hips and the kind of butt that I was completely embarrassed of until Jennifer Lopez started popping up on every magazine cover. But despite the positive role models in my life and despite subtle body image lessons from my parents and despite the voice in my head knowing better, I did something really dumb. I listened to the message mass media had been screaming at me every time I turned on TV or opened a magazine. I was fat. I would never be as beautiful as the skinny girl standing next to me. I would need to lose weight in order to be truly happy - to marry the great man, to have the great career, to raise the wonderful family. Thin women get those things. Fat women watch the thin women be happy.

So over time I convinced myself that it was mere fact: I was fat. I knew it. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name. I would say that I was "pleasantly plump" or other silly jokes at my own expense, knowing that calling myself fat out loud would only lead to the "no you're not" comments that I didn't need. I didn't want to be convinced otherwise. I knew I was right. 

I knew I was fat here, with my mismatched front teeth and my freckled face. I would go home from 2nd grade and write down weight loss goals in my journal.

I knew I was fat here, with my butterfly clips pinning back my legendary perm. I would ask the "hot" guys out for my friends because I just knew they would never be interested in me.

  

I just knew I was fat here, despite my best efforts to promote a healthy body image. I had just completed a marathon relay with a group of my friends. I remember seeing this picture and fixating on how wide my hips were and how thick my thighs were in comparison to my friends. Those legs had just carried me down 6 miles of pavement but, in my head, they were fat legs more than anything else. 

This letter is a promise to you, my sweet girl. I'm done with that. I'm sick of comparing myself to other women. I'm sick of feeling guilty when I get whipped cream on my coffee. I'm sick of the nasty comments I make in my head regarding the cellulite on the back of my legs or how huge my arm looks in a picture. I'm throwing in the "I hate my body" towel because guess what? I was never fat. I was a little girl with poor eating habits who had not yet found an activity that I enjoyed to keep my body active. So how dare I label myself with such a cruel word at such a young age? How dare I carry that label into adulthood, struggling with negative self talk well into my 20s? All the while, the truth was buried underneath the labels and expectations and comparisons. I am giving up the tug-of-war inside my own head with this declaration... the truth... I freaking LOVE my body. 

I love that my legs carried me across the Fargo marathon-relay finish line two times now. I love that my cold feet can be warmed by your daddy in the middle of the night. I love that my hands can type this letter to you. I love that my collarbone reminds me of my mother every time I see it. I love that, even with the faintest stretch marks popping up on my sides, my belly has been an awesome home for you - a place where you continue to grow stronger every single day. 

And, to be completely honest with you, "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" is total bull. My wedding cake tasted way better than skinny could ever feel. Peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Homemade pizza. Knoephla soup. Roasted squash. Apple crisp. Mashed potatoes. Ice cream for goodness sake! There's a hell of a lot of things that taste better than skinny feels. Eat them. Enjoy them. Let yourself LIVE. Focus on your health, on the way your body feels, but promise me that you will never fixate on a pant size or a stupid "thigh gap." Grow your own vegetables. Keep your body active. Go for walks. Buy a decent bike. Hula hoop until you're in the nursing home... then hula hoop even more. Savor delicious food. 

My child, you deserve a mother who follows her own advice. You will not have to listen to me bash my body because I am beautiful. I am healthy. I am strong. I am capable of great things. I am a real, flawed, complicated woman. And I love you with the kind of strength that you may never fully understand until you have a child of your own. I pray that when society is screaming that you are fat/stupid/incapable/less than, you will be able to look that monster square in the eye and say, "I am enough." 

Love Always and Forever, 

Mom