Baby, You Were Born This Way

I remember asking a pregnant neighbor, when I was about 6-years old, how her baby was going to get out of her belly.  I recall vividly the uncomfortable nature in which she answered.  Her answer was quick, without thoughtfully pondering the magnitude in which it might affect my delicate little mind: “It pops out of your belly button” she said, changing the subject rapidly by asking me if I would like to play with her daughter’s favorite doll, who hadn’t made it home from school yet.

I remember years upon years of staring at my own belly button in the mirror thinking “Now, that’s GOT to hurt!” not even contemplating the truth and the horrendous pain that would actually ensue during the real thing, many years later. Some part of me still thinks that a baby popping out of a pregnant belly’s navel is still feasible, given the right circumstances.

Talking about reproduction and sex with our children now, has come a long way.  It used to be about discussing the differences between men and women anatomically. That was what was referred to as “the TALK”.  Explaining “The Birds and the Bees”, was pretty much it.  Not anything further.

My son was in fourth grade, when I received the notice home about the impending “movie” that was going to be shown the next day.  A few years earlier, when he was about 6 years old, he asked me how babies were actually born . I explained how babies came out of women’s bodies. Not my old neighbor’s version, of course, the real thing, using all the terms and correct names for body parts, to which he nervously asked if boys ever gave birth to babies.  When I reassured him that only girls gave birth, he dramatically wiped pretend sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand and said “Phewwww!”, with all the relief that his little body could muster. So for the fourth grade version, I got very detailed.  We talked about sex and what took place.  He looked shocked, but educated. I also carefully mentioned how important it was not to share these details with other kids at school or his little sister, as it was the parents’ decision as to when to tell their children this news.

My daughter’s experience went quite differently. She was intensely interested in the human body and surgical procedures from an early age. She loved to watch the Emergency Room documentaries on TV and expressed interest in becoming a surgeon at the age of 8 years old.  She wrote stories about surgery and “fixing people’, so I bought her books on the human anatomy, so that she could study them, refer to them and see detailed pictures.  One night, while I was driving home from a social gathering, with my husband in the passenger seat and my two kids in the back seat, my daughter made an announcement:

“I think I have figured out what sex is.” She said openly.  I felt my husband's body weight shift to the passenger side door, as if he was going to prepare for the appropriate moment to open the car door and jump out while we were still in motion.

“Great, tell us.” I said calmly.  More shifting from the passenger side.  I was sure my husband’s right cheek was now pressed against the window and his hand was on the door handle. My daughter explained, using all of the correct terminology, the act itself, to which my 11 year old son responded with: “Yup, that’s it!” as if he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and had been tortured keeping this information to him self over the last few years.

“Yes” I confirmed, “You, explained it very well” I said smiling.  I could tell that my husband, without him even uttering a word, was the most uncomfortable he has ever been.  I am not sure if I will ever get to witness that type of awkwardness again, where he is concerned.

After a few moments of silence, my daughter said cautiously “Wait…that means that YOU and DADDY…OH GROSS!!!”

“Yes sweetheart, we have, of course.” At this point, I am mentally noting, that my husband has been scarred for life. The damage is irreversible.

I have since had many conversations about sex with my children.  We have discussed homosexuality, trans gender surgery, abstinence, condoms, sexually transmitted diseases, menstruation, teen pregnancy, etc.  I believe that knowledge is power and tolerance is a must. 

Do I expect my kids to abstain from sex until they are married? Do I expect my kids to be sexually active? Do I even expect them to marry? Do I expect that my kids will be heterosexual? The answer to all of these is a resounding “That is THEIR decision, not mine”.

Do I expect my kids to be comfortable with their own bodies? Do I expect my kids to be comfortable with their own sexuality? Do I expect my kids to keep themselves safe?  Do I expect my kids to be responsible for their own reproduction? Do I want them to make self confident decisions? The answer to all of these is a resounding “Yes”.

This may not be the best approach for all parents.  It may not even be the best approach for me and my family. But I feel strongly about this: I will not let someone else be responsible for telling my children about these things.  I do not want their friends to inform them, or a TV show to clue them in, or for the lyrics of some song to shed the light.  I want them to hear it from me. I want to have open, frank discussions and leave no stone unturned. 

I do not expect all people to agree with me or follow me.  I do expect for others to appreciate that I want to educate my children in a way that I see fit to insure that they are comfortable with all of the answers to their questions. The birds and the bees just doesn't fly.

What's the Skinny?

Let’s cut to the chase.  I have never been skinny.  Never. I do not think that ‘achieving skinniness’ has ever been a goal of mine.  I have always wanted to be healthy, fit, but not ‘skinny’. ‘Athletic’ sounds good. That’s what I want, athletic endurance.

I like my curves and believe me, I have them. I want to look like a woman.  I will admit, I do have more jiggly parts than I care to have at the present time, but I generally feel good about myself, even when I am over my ideal weight.

I was raised by a lovely looking woman who, at her most, weighed in at 130 lbs at 5’5”.  All while being 9 months pregnant.  My mother could sit and eat a pound of bacon and she would lose a few pounds, simply from the act of eating it.  I would gain a pound just watching her, as I chewed on my celery sticks.  That’s just how it is. Oh, the cruelty of living with someone who has a speedy metabolism, when you have a slow one.

I have always thought that it was very important to have a positive self image.  Even more so now as I age, especially in front of my children.  I am not a big fan of the word ‘fat’, I have to say.  I do not use the word ‘diet’, either.  I refer to eating habits as either ‘eating healthy’ or ‘eating-not-so-healthy’. I am also a follower of the phrase "Everything in moderation."

A few weeks ago, I invited a new friend of my daughter’s, Emily, to come over to hang out at our house and then join us for a movie at the theater, later in the day. It was our first time having her at our house and my very first time meeting her.  My first impression of Emily was that she is fun loving girl.  She is very outspoken and witty.  We thoroughly enjoyed her company that day and had a ball together.  Something did happen on the ride over to the theater, though, that I am still not comfortable with.

As Emily and my daughter were riding together in the back seat for the 25 minute drive to the movie theater, they decided to tell each other funny, made up stories. There was a lot of giggling between them.  I listened to the stories and chuckled at their storytelling as it alternated back and forth between them. What I quickly realized, was that all of Emily’s stories had a fat person in them, and that person was always at a disadvantage because of their weight. By the 4^th story of Emily’s, I had to interject.

“Emily, why are their always fat people in your stories and why is being fat such a bad thing?” I asked from the front seat, glancing in the rear view mirror, trying to make brief eye contact with her.

The fun immediately came to a halt. What a buzz kill!

Emily was silent for a moment and then said “Because fat people are FAT.” and she stressed the word FAT in a mocking way. “Nobody wants to be fat.” Emily snickered.

“Hmmm…be very careful.” I said in my own head, and then I completely abandoned any notion of keeping my mouth shut and said, “I would really like it if you could choose another way to describe the people in your stories besides fat”.

Again, silence. Emily and my daughter exchanged sideways glances and then my daughter caught my eye in the mirror, looking apologetic. 

“Sure” Emily said, “But my stories won’t be nearly as funny.” 

I was now irritated, but decided to let it go.  The day passed without another mention of the word ‘fat’. My daughter and Emily had a really nice time together. I could tell they were off to a great friendship. I was less than thrilled with Emily’s stories, but I wasn’t going to let it be my only first impression of her.

That evening, as my daughter was getting ready for bed, I approached her about the exchange in the car earlier.  She said that she had felt uncomfortable by both my request and Emily’s use of the word ‘fat’ in such a negative way. We discussed how poking fun at people because they are overweight is not acceptable. We also discussed, yet again, that people come in all shapes, colors and sizes. I encouraged her to speak up in the future in the event that any of her friends were being unfair to others, and she said that she would. Easier said, than done.

The following weekend, my daughter was invited over to Emily’s house with two other friends for the day.  They are truly a great group of girls and have a lot of laughs together.  As I was dropping my daughter off, with the 4 girls present, Emily’s Mother, Emily and I had a brief conversation about their cat that I had been petting on the way up the flagstone path leading to their house:

“What a beautiful cat!” I had said as they were opening the door to welcome us.

“That’s Smokey, she is the best cat ever!” Emily said, smiling.

“We love her.” Emily’s Mother said’ “Even if she is a little too plump.”

 “Mom, just so you know, we can’t use the word ‘fat’ today.” Emily blurted out quickly. I knew immediately that that comment was solely meant for my benefit.

Are you kidding me? Mission NOT accomplished.

 I got the impression that my fight against fat was now futile when it came to Emily and her family.

 I felt a little exacerbation of air escape my daughter’s body as she crouched down to pet Smokey. I thought it would be best to brush by Emily’s comment by focusing on the beautiful red, yellow and white tulips lining the walkway. Surely, they couldn’t be called ‘fat’, I thought.  Then, Emily’s mother and I toured their garden and made small talk before I left.

I so desperately want my daughter to grow up and be healthy without an overload of emphasis being placed on her physical appearance and the size of her body.  It would be so great if our society would stop placing so much pressure on young people to look a certain way and encourage them to just be HEALTHY. It would be more than great if we could stop doing that to one another.

That’s probably not going to happen.

As I reflect back on the Emily moments over the last few weeks, I honestly know that I could not have kept my thoughts to my self in the car.  As a parent, I will not keep my opinion quiet when it comes to this topic, or any topic that I believe influences my children and their own opinion of their body.

We, as parents, can’t always change the world, but we can influence our children by setting the best example possible. I will not allow myself to be negative towards my own body.  Even if, at times, I don’t feel great about it. It is my mission.

Sometimes, I fear that my reactions will do more harm than good by simply placing emphasis.  Will my battle with the word ‘fat’ being used negatively have the opposite effect that I want and make my children more self conscious? Will my vigilance be translated as overcompensation for my own non-skinniness and defeat my whole purpose.  It might.

Everyday, I wake up, and try like hell to do what I think is right for my kids.  I sometimes misfire. The best thing I can do is keep my body image healthy, and encourage the same for my kids. Maybe someday the world we live in will be rid of these types of judgments.

It is a big, fat, question mark…

Old Yeller

I yell. I do. I can be a yeller. I am a loud person, and I know it.  I wrestle almost everyday with my own personal volume control issues, and for the most part, I win.  I keep it under control and I am not nearly the yeller I could be. I am proud of myself.

This past weekend, we began a huge makeover on my daughter’s room.  I decided to start this task at 6pm on a Sunday. I know, I know, I just heard the collective sigh of all Mothers (and some Dads) out there who are bewildered by the fact that I would start any lengthy project on a Sunday at that late hour.  I think I even heard a couple of you mutter “Is she crazy?” under your breath.

My daughter and I started this project together. It would be ‘fun’, I thought.  She was ecstatic to have a say in how the room would be transformed, picking out new bedding, pictures for the walls and the choosing of the paint color, a beautiful calming shade of powder blue.

Calming, my foot.  For some reason, I approached this project with the optimism that I would NOT lose my cool.  Why would I expect that?  All projects that run the risk of becoming potential disasters make me uncomfortable.  So uncomfortable, that I can feel my blood pressure rise at the mere thought of them. This is genetic.

I wish I was different.  I want to be the Mom that scoffs at paint spilled on the carpet.  I want to be the Mom that dances around with a paintbrush in her hand not worrying about the splatter. I want to be the Mom that my daughter will tell stories of to her friends underlining how much fun we had decorating her room.  I am not always that Mom.  I am a potential yeller.  So at the first sign of paint on the carpet, I go from calm to not so calm, and I regret it.

The painting part of the make-over, went relatively well, except for one faux pas.  My daughter decided to drag a drop cloth with the paint tray and roller on it along with her as she moved to start a new wall, instead of laying a new one down as I had told her to do.  So, essentially, she should have seen my ‘not so calm’ reaction coming, when her actions resulted in the drop cloth getting doused with paint, some of it winding up on the rug. A pretty good sized mess was the result.  So, I yelled at her. I was not proud of myself. Then I reminded her, still above the normal tone of voice, how she did not listen to what I had said about the drop cloth.  That was it.  But that was enough, her face crunched up and she started to cry. Probably due more to the fact that her cream colored carpet now had powder blue splotches all over it, than my yelling.

I sat down in the corner of the room with her, we hugged, and I explained that I was not pleased that I had made the choice to yell at her and that I was also not happy that this painting project did not make me happy.  I tried to explain that, although I loved her profusely and thoroughly enjoy any time spent with her, projects like this were, more often than not, not fun for me.  I want them to be.  But they are not. I essentially explained, through this chat to my 11-year-old daughter, what a control freak was and I owned up to being one. A big one.

My daughter and I moved on, I finished the painting alone and then together we set out for bigger and better things in the way of picking out curtains and curtain rods.

In the days since, I have thought about my yelling. I wonder what a child’s life would be like if their parents never yelled at them.  What a wonderful concept. What would happen though, when they were thrust into the real world, where bosses would not only yell at you for spilling paint on the clients’ floor, but would also fire you for your carelessness.  Would my child be at a disadvantage if she was never yelled at or would her life be blissful?  Does yelling toughen them up a bit? Does being yelled at make you better able to cope later on in life or does being hollered at chip away at you emotionally? I do yell, and when I do, I usually follow it with an apology, only for losing my cool, not for being upset with my children and their actions.

With Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday, I will celebrate with my children the wonderful thing that is motherhood. It is truly magical, as I will never love anyone more than I love my children. As Mothers, we can do our kids a great service by forgiving ourselves when we make mistakes and not being so hard on ourselves for the things that we regret.

During my motherhood, I will continue to provide unconditional love and caring to my children. I will chauffeur, volunteer, scrub stains out of clothes (or carpet),  relearn math that I have forgotten, memorize state capitals (again), cry at graduations, proms and triumphant sporting events.  I will pace the floor at night worrying, jump at phone calls, scrutinize boyfriends and girlfriends and make eyes roll. I will always offer my life to save theirs…all with a hearty yell thrown in every once in while, for good measure. 

Happy Mother’s Day.