Changing Perceptions

What are we doing to our daughters? Our sisters? Our friends? I write that like I’m distanced from the problem – but that’s far from the truth. I’m talking about body image. Self-esteem. Confidence. Like it or not, all of those things are rolled into one package. It’s a package that many of us routinely slam with a brick. For no good reason other than as a result of outside influences. It’s got to stop. My younger daughter hasn’t quite hit puberty yet. Judging by her changing shape, I know it’s just a matter of a bit more time. She’s a beautiful collage of little girl and burgeoning lady. She still has her “baby tummy” but now feels the need to wear training bras. I made sure I had a couple of those for her, long before she was ready for them. I remember the gnarliness of waking up one morning and thinking “wow – the tit fairy came last night!” All of a sudden, your clothes don’t fit the same and things show where they never showed before. It’s an odd feeling. Part excitement, part embarrassment, part fear, part desire to crawl back into bed and never come out. You hope no one notices – but you know they do. Gym class becomes a waking nightmare. Damn white t-shirts. Anyway, back to my little one (I know my time of calling her that is limited, so indulge me). On the last day of school, grades 4, 5 and 6 walked to a local public pool. My husband went along, as he usually does, to be a parent volunteer. When they got home that afternoon, he took me aside and told me that he thinks we’re heading for trouble. I asked why. He told me that, when the kids arrived at the pool, many of them excitedly stripped off their shorts and t-shirts in order to have their picnic lunch in their swimsuits. He told our daughter to go ahead and do the same. She didn’t want to. He asked her why and she said nothing. Just patted her tummy. My heart shattered. I grew up with a weight problem. It started much younger than my daughter’s current 11 years. My mom, with the help of my pediatrician, took a strong and caring interest in keeping my weight under control. My dad was an obese man. At varying stages of his life, I know he carried at least 350 pounds, maybe more, on his 6’ frame. I never knew exact numbers. My mom was a slight 98 pounds, soaking wet, and she just wanted to make sure that her girls fell somewhere in a healthy middle. My mom would give me a balanced dinner and I was allowed to have a small dessert. Treats weren’t off limits – just observed and controlled. My best friend lived right next door. Her parents thought it was a disgrace to put a kindergartener on a “diet.” So, after supper, I’d run next door to play and, instead, I’d be seated at their picnic table. A full plate would be set in front of me with whatever was coming off their grill – hamburger, hotdog, anything. And I ate it. I wasn’t hungry – but I ate. Why? Mostly because I was about five years old and my parents raised me to be polite and do as I was told. When my mom found out, she hit the roof. Although it certainly explained to her why I wasn’t quite fitting into those groovy little “hot pants” she bought me for the summer. (This was 1969, maybe 1970, remember – hot pants were perfectly acceptable for anyone from hookers to housewives). Jump ahead to my daughter at the pool. Only, it’s not her – it’s me. I’m standing in her place, seeing through her eyes. Pretty, one-piece swimsuit under my shorts and slightly oversized t-shirt. I watch the other girls, some a little younger, others older, confidently strutting around in their WAY-too-teeny bikinis, throwing decorum to the wind and bouncing boobs and booties for all to see. I want to join in. I want to feel that freedom. Yet, I want it burned into her brain that they are the exception – not the rule. I’m trying to raise my daughters to be proud of their bodies – to know that they are beautiful, to take pride in who they are. Yet, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to hide myself. I’ve buried my frame under ill-fitting clothes my whole life. I could have saved a lot of money buying items in the right size. I’ve paid for a helluva lot of extra material. Some people call it a battle. For me, it’s a war. A war that I’ve yet to win – but I keep fighting. Somehow, I always feel that I’m alone on the battlefield. Everyone else looks just fine to me! We were at a different pool yesterday, as a family. My sister had a new swimsuit. A lovely two-piece, in black, white and a touch of mauve. I complimented her on it and was surprised when she told me how stressful buying it had been. She recently changed jobs. She went from doing some very active, physically demanding, on-your-feet-running-around-all-day-with-no-time-to-eat-much-less-sit work and returned to an office job. Apparently, her body image is traveling conversely to her salary. I don't see what she sees. She also told me how, while in the changing room, she heard a little girl and her mother in the next stall. The girl was sobbing while trying on clothes. She hated how she looked. My sister opened the door of her stall, just a bit, as the mother and daughter were leaving. The little girl, about the age of mine, was perfect. Not too heavy, not too thin. Just healthy and attractive. Somewhere, somehow, we have to change perceptions. I’m not trying to advocate an unhealthy lifestyle. I DON’T think that we should eat whatever we want, whenever we want. I DON’T think that we should live without self-control. I firmly believe in the adage that tells us “everything is ok in moderation.” Maybe we don’t have a grasp on what being moderate really means. What I DO want is to live in a society that embraces little girls who want to run and laugh and play and swim, on a sweltering day in June, without making them question how they look doing any one of those things. Let’s not beat down the plants before they’ve had a chance to blossom.