The other day, I invited three of my friends over for pizza
and iced tea. Two of these friends
are 12 and 14 years old—they’re sisters and I’ve babysat them forever. They are the closest thing to daughters
that I’ve ever had, even though I’m not that much older than them, I love them
fiercely and feel very protective of them. I remember when they went through a strawberry milk phase,
when they went through a sleep ass-naked phase. I know which one likes their hot dog without the bun, and I
know which one would lie about brushing her teeth by putting a dab of
toothpaste on her tongue, breathing hot hair in my face and saying “seeee?”
And now they are preteens. They have Instagram and they go to
Taylor Swift concerts. One is
fresh and witty, she tells me she’s going to be an actress. The other is tooth-achingly sweet and
innocent. They’re both striding
through the preteens with such grace and ease that it’s kind of shocking.
Anyway, when I had them over, my good friend (who’s my age)
joined us. We all hit it off,
devouring margarita pizza. And
then, half way through dinner, my friend said she needed to stop eating. My daughters, that’s what I’ll call
them, looked puzzled. “Why?” They
asked. So my friend
explained. “My thighs,” she said. “And my ass. Have you seen these?”
This, of course, is nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve all been there, and we’ve all
talked about it, over dinner, over coffee, whatever. I’ve had this conversation many times, idly complaining with
friends about how if we could only get a few inches off this area, then everything would be perfect (ha).
But in front of my daughters? I found myself leaping to protect them, wanting to cover
their ears. I remember, very
vividly, sitting on the beach one late afternoon when I was about eleven or
twelve. My mom was swimming and I
was sitting next to an old family friend and her friend, two women in their
young 30’s. I was diving into a
baggie of goldfish and listening to them chat. I had always deeply admired one of them. She was quick and intelligent, warm and
hilarious, with long curly hair and tattoos. There was nothing not cool
about her. But that afternoon, I remember she was talking about her
weight. She was talking about
wanting to lose weight, wanting to feel skinny, etc. And I was floored.
She was curvy, but that’s what I loved about her. She owned it, she was beautiful, and I couldn’t
wrap my head around her being displeased with herself, when all I wanted to do
was be her when I grew up. I remember looking down at my own
thighs, pieces of my body I had never thought much of, and wondering if I
should be feeling something about them, if I should wish them to be
otherwise. It was entirely new to
me. Frankly, it opened a door that
is a lot harder to shut.
So this is why I jumped to protect my daughters. I’m not saying people shouldn’t ever
want to lose weight or get active or change their bodies (and, in fact, my
friend from pizza night decided she wanted to get in shape and is kicking
ass). But I want my daughters to
think nothing of their bodies until they absolutely have to. Because they are healthy, they
work, and there is so much more to worry about in life. For now, it should just be the little
things.
JMB
photo by Norman Parkinson, 1971
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