What They See: How My Actions Form Their Perceptions

Root canal. Stand in line at the DMV. Clean the P-trap on
the bathroom sink. These are just a few of the things I’d rather do than wear a swimming
suit. I was going to add “in public.” But even in the privacy of my own home, I
loathe wearing a swimming suit.

The dilemma here is that my kids love to swim. There we
were, on a Sunday afternoon, looking for something fun to do, and they all want
to head to the Y to go swimming. They’re excited. They’re resolved. I’m torn.

You see, the Y’s rules require that anyone under a certain
age have an adult in the pool area with them. What I want to do is exercise while they swim, but that’s not an option. I could sit at the edge of the
pool working on some writing projects. Except that moisture isn’t good for the
old laptop. I can bring a book and read. Except that I’ll just be thinking about the
writing projects I need to be working on, twiddling my fingers. I’m not good at
just sitting still.

“Why don’t you just swim with us?” Cuddle Bug asks. I give
him a blank stare, perplexed that he would even think this is a possibility. Oh, sweet, naive little boy. So much to learn.  “Uh,
no. I hate wearing a swimming suit.”

“Why?” he asks. I sigh. I don’t really want to explain to
him that I hate the way my body looks. I’ve given birth to three babies, and
there are stretch marks and varicose veins and this poochy belly. And we won’t even bother with the thighs. I don’t want to teach him that chunky girls want to be skinny girls, that our culture holds disdain for the Not-So-Fit among us. Ugh.

At first, I stand at my book shelf, mulling over my options. But then head over to my dresser and pull out the black tankini swimming suit that I bought at Costco last summer. It still has the tags on it. Grimacing and rolling my eyes, I put the stupid thing on. Meh. It’s not horrendous. I’m not comfortable. But the boys don’t care what I look like in a bathing suit– they just want to play with their mom. 

As I go into the bathroom to grab a towel, Cuddle Bug sees me. “Mom! You look great! I don’t know why you don’t like to wear a swim suit. You look really good.” This child was born with rose-colored retinas, God bless him.

What am I teaching him when I keep pointing out my flaws? I cringe at commercials featuring gaunt skeletons covered with skin, and decry a culture that seems more concerned with a girl’s thigh-gap than her GPA. These boys may one day have the power to shape or shatter a woman’s image of herself. Am I teaching them that a curvy body is not acceptable, shameful even? I’m essentially telling them, “This, boys, is not good enough. Take note.”

Would I make these comments if I had girls? I hope not! I hope I wouldn’t try to reinforce the idea that girls have to be skinny in order to be appealing.  I would want my daughter to focus on expanding her mind, not shrinking her waistline. So why am I making these comments to the future men who will one day love a woman who isn’t a size zero? I know how it feels to be judged by a spouse who demands bodily perfection, who compares you to the Victoria’s Secret models, and tells you repeatedly that you’re no “trophy wife.” I want better for my future daughters-in-law.

And so, I shall wear a bathing suit. And I shall be proud of the stretch marks that proclaim my baby-making superpowers. My pale white skin shall glow in the sunlight as evidence of the many hours I spend working in the dark of a windowless newsroom in order to provide for my kids. Because it’s the character of a woman that counts– not her waist size.