I was helping Claire try on clothes in a dressing room the other day. She had just taken off her shirt after trying on a pair of shorts she adored that refused to button no matter how much we wrestled with them, when she turned to face herself in the mirror, critically eyeing her reflection. She pointed to her stomach and very matter-of-factly said, "My tummy is really fat."
I froze.
Claire is 6. Claire still likes Dora even though her older sister tells her daily how uncool she is. Claire loves cooking eggs by herself, trying to stick the landing on her recently learned trampoline front flip and painting pictures of colorful flowers for everyone she knows. She is a happy child. She has always marched to the beat of her own drum. She has never cared one smidge about the opinions of others. I wanted to bottle her confidence and pass it around to every insecure person I knew.
And man have I been grateful for that confidence, because Claire is bigger than almost everyone in her 1st grade class. She's in the 98th percentile for height and the 100th percentile for weight. And while she is proportionate enough to keep her doctor unconcerned, I knew the day would come when she looked around and realized she was different from her itty bitty classmates. I had just hoped it wouldn't be so soon. I had silently begged the world not to poke holes in her belief that she was simply awesome exactly as she was.
My mind was spinning. Was she making a simple observation? Was she regurgitating what a classmate had said to her? Was it a simple remark that should be left alone? Would talking about it unearth something best left unsaid until she was older? Would I say all the wrong things and make her suddenly aware she was different when she had yet to truly realize that?
She repeated herself.
I positioned myself behind her in the mirror and pointed to her eyes. "You see those eyes? Those are the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen. Mommy & Daddy love those eyes."
I pinched her cherub cheeks. "See these rosy cheeks. They are the most beautiful cheeks I've ever seen. Mommy and Daddy love those cheeks."
I repeated this over and over. Her golden hair. Her perfectly shaped ears. Her stubby little toes. Again and again and again until I had covered every inch of her body. She was giggling but I couldn't gulp my tears back. I was so afraid that my spunky little tow-headed child might not believe my words.
I turned her around to face me and got down on her level. I cupped her chubby face in my palms and said something along the lines of, "When you were in my tummy, Daddy and I used to guess what you would look like. We wondered if you'd be tall or if you'd look like Cora. We wondered if you'd have long fingers like Mommy or dark hair like Daddy or dimples or crazy eyebrows. But the first time I got to hold you after you were born I knew that you were more perfect than we ever could have imagined. Every little part of you make up the Clairebear that we love. And sometimes you might look in the mirror and wish your belly looked different or your arms were different, but always remember that you are strong and you are smart and you are healthy and we think every last bit of you is awesome."
Claire looked at me like I had lost my mind, giggled again and threw a shirt over that controversial belly. I exhaled, grabbed my purse and, holding Claire's hand, walked out of the store, out into the world. The very world that may someday beat down my child. Crush her self esteem. The very world that may one day make her question every last word spoken in the security of that dressing room filled with Mom praise. Kids can say harsh things. The world can be so cruel.
Were my words enough? Will she remember them when their meaning holds so much more importance? Or will they not matter as she beats herself up for her imperfections?
This is when parenting is the hardest. The unknowns. I don't know how this turns out. All I can do is keep repeating myself so she will know this: that her mom loves every inch of her. Cause I won't stop saying it. Even after she realizes Dora is an annoying, half-pint, I'll say it. And when she starts to long for boy cooties instead of shun them, I'll say it. And when she stops fighting the daily hair-brushing ritual and spends hours locked in the bathroom with a curling iron and some Maybelline, I'll say it. And when she gets her heart broken, I'll say it. And when she doesn't, I'll say it. I'll say it until I'm blue in the face. And then, I'll say it again.
And maybe then it will be enough. Maybe then she'll believe that a fat/thin/round/slim belly doesn't define her. And that every last bit of her is awesome.
