May 08, 2009
I have struggled with food/eating/body image issues since I was fourteen years-old. Everyone has his or her ongoing internal struggle and I finally have surrendered to the fact that this is mine. But after battling an eating disorder for most of my teens, I truly did have it under some sort of control for years--that is until I heard those three life-changing words, "It's a girl." Really? "Are you sure?" I asked the technician, "...like really sure?" And she was. And we were. We were having a baby girl. I won't lie. My first thought was, "Holy shit, how am I going to raise a self-confident woman?" Me? The girl who never likes how she looks. The woman who knows exactly how many weight watcher points are in just about everything on the planet. Me? A role model for an innocent little girl. Oy.
At first, it was easier to focus on the external changes I could make in my life to prepare for the arrival. I stopped my subscriptions to People and US magazines and decided not to keep womens' rags with airbrushed skinny girls famous for being famous laying around the house (this has been one of the most positive changes I've ever made in my life but that's another blog). Of course, I knew that this was only a small thing to do. Unrealistic images of girls and women are everywhere--at the supermarket checkout counter, on buses and billboards. But, at least, I could begin to control what images I kept around my home.
The harder part was focusing on my internal dialogue and my own everyday language. It's not easy for me to go a whole day without asking, "Does this make me look fat?" It's tough to eat a cookie or cupcake or french fry and not feel angry at myself--and not let my mood be affected. And it's completely unnerving being watched 24/7 by a beautiful, smart, funny, full-of-potential two and a half year-old girl looking up to me as an example of the modern mom/woman. Each day, I try and be that person for her and for myself. Sometimes I fail. But, lately, more often, I do okay.
So...when my mom offered to help me out this Saturday and take my daughter in the morning so I could do something special for mother's day, I jumped at the offer. We were all set until my mom said, "I'll swing by in the morning and take her to Weight Watchers with me." To my mom, this sentence was simply a filler, part of her own thinking aloud scheduling process. Weight Watchers is an on again/off again staple of her life. But my mom's simple sentence weighed heavy on me. It felt like the beginning. The beginning of what will one day be my daughter's own journey through the rocky mountains of self-image and self-discovery. What would she think watching women--her grandma--stepping on a scale and recording every detail? I know that some kids might not think twice. But I also know my girl. She doesn't miss a trick or an opportunity to ask who, what, when, where, why?
Looking a gift horse straight in the mouth, I told my mom, "No." She absolutely could not take my daughter to Weight Watchers. She told me I was being ridiculous. I listened and then still said, "No." I know that I am only prolonging the inevitable. Afterall, my daughter lives on this planet, in the same zip code as Britney Spears no less, so there's only so much I can do. But I can try and slow the process down and so I've decided that at this time, Weight Watchers is inappropriate for my girl. The beginning doesn't need to start just yet.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to my online WW account and total my daily points.
No comments:
Post a Comment