Life is Groundhog Day. I muddle through work, slog through 37,482 Zoom meetings each day that are primarily me judging everyone's home decor, and then try to feed my family some sort of dinner that doesn't include popcorn as part of the main entree. Oh yeah. And then I decide I won't drink, and that I won't eat carbs, and that I will get in 30 minutes of vigorous activity. Instead, I put the kids to bed, swap out my joggers, and pour a crisp Chardonnay over a tall glass of ice. Because I am classy like that.
But I do think a lot about making some changes. This may come as a shock to many of you, but I am fat. I generally prefer the term "sturdy" or "thick" as it makes me feel like a Viking. I even had a guy in grad school refer to me as the "Husky Mountain Girl" because he couldn't remember my name. While I am trying not to overthink our current circumstances, I do think about how to model good choices for my children. I simply do not want my girls to struggle with their weight the way I struggle with mine. See, that's a lie. I no longer struggle. I let go of those "thigh gap" dreams years ago
Over the past 5 weeks, I have had an increasing sense of anxiety that my children may be using food to foster a sense of security and predictability. So, we talk about healthy food choices, and being active, and eating treats only occasionally. And that bodies are different, being strong is more important than being thin (although, my current push-up challenges have confirmed I am neither). As an aside, David is clearly a lost cause; I just found two ham steaks and a box of raisin bran under his pillow.
And my daughters think I am the bees knees. Because I am confident, and I own my stretch marks, and I am not too vain to live the example I try to set. In fact, I recently had to school both of them on how to do a back bend. No, I couldn't finish the walk over, but no, we didn't have to call the paramedics. My girls were both fascinated by and embarrassed of their mother, and both had their own back bends mastered by the end of the night. I assured them that being 44 and chubby meant nothing.
And then Morgan decided to call my bluff. As I pulled into the driveway last week, I encountered Morgan and Clara in the street. Morgan was on her pogo stick, and Clara was running the timer. They were confident Morgan's 3 minutes of bouncing was on the verge of a world record, and I was confident one of my children was about to crack a tooth. And then the unthinkable happened:
"Mom, do you know how to use a pogo stick?"
"Yes, but it's been a really long time."
"Don't you want to try it?"
"Uh, I think it's just kid sized."
"No, Mom. The weight limit is 250 lbs." (Seriously, why did I let her learn how to read?)
"Okay, I will give it a try..."
"YAY! And we'll take pictures of you!"
"Yes, please document this shit. That's exactly what I need right now." (Fine, I only thought this one.)
And so I did it. And I nailed it. And my girls were cheering. It was glorious. And then they showed me the pictures. And they were horrifying.
- My double chin was going in for the triple;
- My belly was just about to surpass my boobs as the area most likely to catch a dropped fry; and
- My ass probably needed its own pogo.
My internal reaction was intense. And visceral. And full of self loathing. And an absolute contradiction to every bit of positivity I have been trying to instill in my daughters for the last 12 years. But man, whoa.
"Mama, can you see how good you are? Can you see how many times you bounced?"
"Yes, baby. I see."
"When I grow up, I want to pogo just like you. I want to tell all my friends that my mom is the best pogo sticker in the world!"
"Well, I wouldn't go that far..."
'But Mama, you should put this on Facebook so all of your friends can see!"
She was right. Because that moment wasn't about my chin, or my belly, or my ass. It was about living my word, and setting an example. It was about owning who I am. And having fun. And it was about creating that tiny little memory with my girls. The night their mom almost broke a world record.
Next up, unicycles.
