My Daughter Can Never Know I Think I'm Fat

I knew the only way I'd be able to shop in my closet for an outfit to wear that night would be to involve my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter.  

"A!" I called with conspiratorial glee, "Wanna help Mommy pick out her clothes for tonight?"

Lady A was overjoyed. I was going to see Alvin Ailey perform, and I needed something festive and sassy.  I began pulling tops and pants out of my closet.

"That's pretty! What about that?" Lady A asked, pointing at a flouncy turquoise mid-calf length skirt.  

I pulled it down. I didn't have a sweater or footwear to go with it.  With a scarf, I strapped the skirt on Lady A and let her pretend to wear a ball gown for a while.

"I like this!" Lady A then pointed to a summery pink and white knee length skirt totally inappropriate for the frigid March evening.

"That’s nice, but I'll freeze!" I said. "I can't wear that!"

Then I saw something PERFECT.  A black leather skirt that fell to just about the knee.  I'd wear printed black tights, a ruffled sweater, and my heeled boots.

"I've got it!" I told my daughter.  I reached for the skirt and tried to pull it on. I tugged and tugged but it wouldn't go past my thighs.  My have-always-been-bigger-than-I'd-like thighs.  My daughter watched expectantly.

"Oh dear." I tried to seem unfazed. "I can't get these on.  Guess I've gained some weight."  

"Yeah, Mommy," Lady A giggled.  

We stood before each other, keeping our thoughts to ourselves.  

She might have only been three, but I knew my daughter knew that a woman being too big to fit in her own skirt was not a good thing.  Somehow she was sensitive enough to see that I was unhappy and embarrassed, and didn’t say something like, "Mommy! You have a big boonda!"  

Had I been alone I would have stood before the mirror slapping my haunches and hating on myself.  "Look at this fatty, fat, fat ASS! What happened to me? I used to be so tiny and now I’m like a manatee!  What am I going to doooooooooooo?"

Instead I admitted my faults. "I guess Mommy has been eating too much,” I said.  “Mommy has to eat better foods." 

The pile of clothes on the bed kept growing with potential outfits before I gave up and decided to go with my go-to winter ensemble – an A-line grey sweater dress over a fitted black turtleneck and leggings with mid-calf, black heeled boots.  It wasn't the super cutola ensemble I'd hoped for, but it worked.

As for Lady A, I'm relieved that I never called myself the “f” word and kept my body frustration to myself.  While of course I hope and pray that it never happens, Lady A has plenty of time for the world to instill in her the "desirable" look and measurements of the female body.  

That madness cannot come from me.

I never want my daughter to know that while I don't exactly think I'm fat, that at any given moment I see myself as 5-10 pounds shy of my goal weight. And happiness. 

And I never want her think that a natural part of being a woman is living in a chronic low-grade fever of body dissatisfaction.

Right now Lady A's little body is an enviable blend of my athletic musculature and her dad's long and lean limbs. We don't know if this will be her body type forever, but even if it isn't, Lady A must know that no one, including herself, should love her any less because her body changes into something that the screens and magazines and billboards say is not okay.  

However, I do want her to understand that if maintaining a certain physique is important to her, eating moderately and exercising regularly is the answer, not self-loathing.  

I want my daughter to believe in her beauty and to love herself.  

Always.

Given our histories, our beliefs, our education, and all we know about beauty and how the world works, we mothers don't have an easy job modeling positive body image.  

Still, we have to demonstrate confidence in our bodies like it's our job. 

Because it is.  

A Dance Lesson for Mothers

Photo: Cheryl Mann

Anyone who has studied ballet, or any ballet-based form knows that some people won the genetic lottery.  They were born to dance.  They still have to work hard, but if they receive good training and are passionate and smart, they will achieve enviable, textbook lines, beautiful execution, and brilliant and sensitive artistry. They will have a career.

Others, unfortunately, may have the same intelligence as their more physically gifted counterparts, but are more suited to be bricklayers, or the mascot of a hoagie restaurant.

Seriously.

Several months ago, during my spring break, I somehow summoned the wherewithal to get to ballet class.  I took with a woman – a Chicago legend -- I’ll refer to as Madame B. Any dancer in Chicago swears by her.  She has trained many in leading companies, and is counted upon to teach company class for companies such as Ailey when they come to town. She is a straight shooter who has no problem calling you out for not working your ass off no matter who you are.

While adhering to strict technique, she insists that everyone from the ABT level ballerina, to the modern dancer, to the dancer past her prime (ahem!) works hard and works correctly.

I consider her my ballet mom.  I only wonder what my career would have been like had I met her in my teens.

Anyway, after this class I took so long ago, Madame B began scolding a young man for his poor attendance. He had a litany of excuses – his jobs, rehearsals, blah, blah, blah. 

Then he started in on his not exemplary, yet far from hoagie-mascot body.

“Stop it!” Madame B said. “Margot Fonteyn had no extension. International ballet star.  Ulanova had no neck.  International ballet star.”  She continued to list the flaws of people who despite their physical attributes, made it big in ballet.

“Yes, but,” the gentleman continued.

“But, nothing!” said Madame B.  “You take class like, ‘Oh, I don’t have any feet,” “Oh, I don’t have any turn out,” “Oh, my butt sticks out,”  “Oh, my legs are short,” “Oh, I am fat,” “Oh, look at my big thighs,” “Oh, look at my short neck,” “And what about my broad shoulders?”  Then you never enjoy it, and you’ve spent the whole class worrying instead of working.  What good is that?”

No different from what I was doing with motherhood, I realized as I sat eating lunch with my chirpy, sweet little girl, feeling unable to fully relish the moment.

Many moms wish to God they could inhabit someone else's motherhood.  Be that perfect mom with a fab house, gorgeous clothes and a hot bod.  The mom who crafts and cooks everything from scratch. One of those women who was born to mother -- who with three kids can still cook for/run errands for/advise a friend with new babies without breaking a sweat.

As a dancer, I had been a master of negative thinking, and as a mom, I was repeating the mistake. My internal momologue, pardon the pun, included some combination of the following:

• My house is a shambles.
• My clothes are style-free.
• My life is a car going 100 m.p.h. and I am hanging onto the door handle.
• My body looks like Barney’s – not the store.
• My kids eat like they’re in a carbohydrate commercial.
• I couldn’t get the kids out of the house/in bed on time with a cattle prod.

No wonder I couldn’t mother happily -- not like in a fairy tale, with birds chirping around my head-- but merely contentedly.

I needed to be genuinely happy with what I had.  My beautiful, intelligent, healthy, happy children.  My handsome and tremendously supportive husband.  My loving home.  My amazing group of friends.  My creativity. My career. 

Me.

Sure, we moms could do better at certain things - cleaning, cooking, better disciplining, organizing or even relaxing. But the heart of the issue is acknowledging and accepting our “Mom M.O.” 

Like the spitfire dancer who knows that adagio work isn’t her forté, but knows she can make it work, the chaotic mom needs to realize she is organized enough to get her family where they need to be.  Almost Pigpen Mama needs to know her kids have fun at home, and her house -- provided it is vermin free -- is a fun and relaxed place. The frazzled momarina needs to stop apologizing and to have confidence in her abilities.

And she needs to remember when thinking about that mom who seems to have and to do it all... She may be enviably fantastic, but in dance as in motherhood, nobody's perfect.