Several times a year my husband works three 15-hour shifts in a row starting on a Friday. After working the amount that most people work in an entire week in just three days, he then works from 5 pm to midnight for several days in a row. I feel badly for him because I know it’s tough, exhausting work, but if I’m truthful, I feel really badly for myself, too, because during these interminable shifts, I feel like my work is just as exhausting. Only I’m not saving lives; I’m just keeping four people alive and on a bad day, I fear I am destroying their lives and one day they will end up horizontal on a couch talking to some stranger about how their mom went a little crazy sometimes.
When I had babies back in residency (my husband is a doctor and he really does save lives and do little things like catch cancer), he frequently worked long hours and although it was never fun, I didn’t mind it so much. I’d fall asleep with the babies early, or I’d miraculously get them to sleep on their own and then curl up with a good book. Or, back when I actually could have called myself a blogger, I’d write up a post or two to share on my website.
But now when he’s gone for these long stretches, I barely just survive. And that is no hyperbole. There have been several times this weekend when I felt like I wanted to run away or in the very least, cry my little, crazy heart out.
I foolishly thought being a mom would get easier, but I’m finding every day that it’s just getting more complicated – and a lot more noisy and busy, too.
Maybe it’s just because of the kind of children I have or how I’ve (failed to) raised them. A friend recently sent me a link to an article called “Strong-Willed Children are a Blessing, Not a Curse.” I needed the article, but I wondered why my friend thought I needed it. Oh wait. She’s seen the tenacity, the colorful, noisy, passionate characters that are my children. My children are very sweet, but they are most definitely more of the spicy variety. Or as another friend put it once, “I have one sparkly child, but you have four.” She said this as my children – who weren’t even disobeying or being overly wild – were circling around me more animated than a Pixar movie.
I had the pleasure of watching my one-year-old niece recently, and we had a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese’s. The sweet girl had only slept for 45 minutes the entire day, and she’s a long napper when at home so I was prepared for a tantrum or two. But nada. Little Ellyn walked around happily taking in all the flashing lights and beeping and buzzing. At one point a toy helicopter that was circling around in a game’s plastic bubble case caught her attention. We watched it for a bit, but then I had to keep Thomas from scaling the prize counter so I scooped Ellyn up in my arms, and I vindictively started gloating. Here it comes. She’s gonna blow. I feel a tantrum coming on.
But nope. She waved “bye-bye” to the helicopter all on her own and looked at me with her bright, blue eyes and smiled. She freakin’ smiled as I forced her to go with me away from the current object of her affection. Huh?
When my brother came to get her, I told him she didn’t sleep much and thinking back to my babies, I said, “She probably won’t sleep too much tonight now will she?”
“Oh she almost always sleeps from 8 to 8 or so whether she naps or not.”
Later I was texting my mom, the grandmother of both Ellyn and my four lively, little beasties, and I wrote, “Ellyn is so easy. None of my kids were like that.”
Ding. New message from Gaba: “I love how different and unique all of my grandchildren are!”
As in easy-going and not-so-easy-going.
I don’t mean to throw my children under the bus or come off as thinking I am the only mother in the world with challenging children. I know that’s not true. I also know that different children are difficult at different stages in their lives. My Thomas was a very easy baby and very laid-back when he was immobile (oh that glorious, golden baby stage when they sit like happy Buddhas and just babble at the beautiful world around them!). Now he screams and rams into unsuspecting sisters all day long. He throws books when he’s angry, but he also gives big bear hugs all throughout the day and says the sweetest things to me like, “You are a beautiful mommy.” Still, I would describe him as “affectionate,” “active,” “animated,” and “expressive,” but I wouldn’t ever use the word “easy” except maybe when he’s asleep.
I suppose what is tough right now is that usually I’ve had one child in a more challenging phase, but the rest have been more straightforward to parent. But right now everything seems a little complicated. My oldest is a relatively easy “tween,” but it’s new to me so that can make it more daunting. And a 3-year-old boy, well, after three girls, I’m just not used to that either. And I have other children who are just prone to passionate outbursts because they are, ahem, the daughters of a very passionate mama.
So life is crazy, and even though I love my kids like crazy, they sometimes drive me crazy, too, especially when there’s no one on deck to help me out and my only alone time is at 5 am in the morning or after 10 pm when my nocturnal child finally slips into Slumberland.
My kids are full of life, and a lot of times I love the beautiful chaos or I at least tolerate it pretty well. But not so much today. Today I found myself wishing the Wicker clan consisted of a bunch of boring, (quietly) moaning zombies.
After Mass today, an older woman told me I had a beautiful family, and I wanted to burst into tears at what felt like a ridiculous comment or maybe I wanted to cry out of pure gratitude for her kindness because at that moment I felt like my family was anything but beautiful. My 6-year-old has an annoying habit of desperately needing to empty her bladder in the middle of each and every Mass, but I told her no today because I knew Thomas would want to go and I was just barely keeping him from becoming completely unhinged as it was. This caused her to ask every five minutes if she could go to the bathroom yet. She also kept whispering that she was still holding it in. “I’m still holding it in, Mommy.”
“Offer it up,” I hissed.
Thomas was flipping through a book of saints, and every picture he saw he pointed to the halo-adorned person and asked in a quasi-whisper (AKA a loud, raspy voice), “Is he a saint? Is she a saint?” And if I didn’t say “yes,” he would emphatically ask again if this clearly pious person was a saint or not. Clearly, I need to work on catechizing the 3-year-old in the family.
Then Thomas cuddled up beside me where Mary Elizabeth had been sitting and holding in her pee, and she looked at him and told him to move and that she had been sitting there next to Mommy. An older child valiantly moved over (not without a dramatic sigh), so prime-next-to-Mommy-real-estate would open up, but, of course, Thomas and Mary didn’t want to sit there. The left side of Mommy is clearly a more desirable spot. So they proceeded in poking each other while an older child sighed (loudly) at their distracting behavior and then proceeded to say, “Shhhh…” in anything but a hushed whisper. I shot daggers at all my kids. I whispered “motorcyle” to Thomas because I had told him good behavior in Mass would result in him picking out an el cheapo plastic motorcycle out of our toy grab bag at home. Enticing him with the motorcycle started out as a reward for good behavior, but now I have no shame in admitting I was using it as a full-out bribe.
Worst of all the priest mentioned at the end of Mass that this was the second Sunday that an altar server had not shown up for his/her scheduled assignment. My Madeline was up there now, but she had been late because clueless Mom had it in her head that Mass was over at the gym today because of our parish’s air conditioning issues. I apologized to Father after Mass and explained my mental gaffe, and he was so kind and charitable that I nearly broke down crying again.
Thomas asked me what the Eucharist tasted like and without even considering my answer, I said, “Love.”
And I told myself the rest of the day – which had started out with yelling and screeching from both the children and me – would be calm and would convey nothing but love.
We returned home and I was supposed to make my signature scones for a special back-to-school breakfast for tomorrow. Only the chocolate chips were MIA. I called my husband at work – because interrupting a man who is saving lives for the sake of chocolate scones is totally reasonable – and he promised he’d only eaten a few and had put them back where I keep our chocolate baking stash. Eventually, a contrite child admitted she had eaten a bunch. We found what was left (in a bag on the basement floor of all places) and tossed in a few token chocolate chunks into the batter.
Then it was time to share the inspiring signs my older girls had made for the year with encouraging phrases like “If you can be anything, be kind,” and “Give your best.”
The favorite one of all was the one that read: “You’re one smart cookie” because it came along with chocolate chip cookies my oldest had baked in honor of my youngest daughter ending her homeschool career (for now at least) and entering a brick and mortar school. We nibbled on the cookies and then talked about what patron saint each child was going to choose for the school year.
Madeline wanted St. Sebastian since she has a big soccer and basketball season ahead of her and also St. Madeleine because this saint apparently encouraged school girls and is Madeline’s namesake. Rachel chose St. Cecilia. Mary asked about this saint’s story. I made the mistake of mentioning how she kept singing even as she was dying. Thomas asked how she died.
“She was beheaded,” an older daughter said.
“What does that mean?” a younger, uncorrupted child asked.
“Her head got chopped off,” said older-but-not-always-so-wise child.
So then Thomas kept asking about why her head got chopped off and who was the person who chopped off her head.
“Was he a bad guy?” Thomas asked.
Well, what do you think, kiddo?
Then Madeline showed him a picture of St. Sebastian alive with arrows in his body.
Just what we needed: More gore for the 3-year-old BOY!
“What happened?” Thomas asked.
“Well, don’t be afraid because this won’t happen to you, but this is called torture,” Madeline gently tried to explain.
Great. Up next: Waterboarding!
I snapped the book shut. “Thomas, this is all you need to know. These people loved Jesus so very much that they were willing to die for him.”
Then I quickly changed subjects and started reading about St. Faustina thinking this might be a good fit for Mary’s patron saint and knowing she died because of poor health not in some gruesome manner that would attract the attention of our warrior boy. As I read about mercy, the kids started bickering (again). I switched to my theatre voice and projected above the cacophony, but they continued fighting. I forgot all about how our home would be nothing but a place of love that afternoon, and I yelled.
Then I locked myself in my room. Every two minutes someone knocked and gave me an important update.
“_______ just whipped us with a blanket.”
“__________ is going crazy. He/she needs a nap.”
“___________ won’t help clean up.”
“Mommy? Where are you?”
“Let me in, Mommy! I want to be with you!”
“Mommy, can I come in there with you because __________ is being so mean and won’t leave me alone.”
“Mommy, we finished cleaning up.”
“Mommy, are you there?”
And I started to cry. And I wrote an email to our priest (and he’s going to probably think I am a wacko). And I Googled that article about strong-willed children and read these words from it over and over:
One Sunday, I was out in the hallway at church with a particularly fussy Andrew, who was about 3 years old at the time. While he was screaming, a sweet elderly woman came up to me and said, “Your kids are so cute.”
I glanced down at my screaming toddler, and wondered if she was talking to the right person.
“They have some spunk,” she went on, “which means that they will accomplish great things.”
I told her that I hoped she was right, and she confidently assured me that she was. Quite honestly, I was a little stunned at her timing. She had seen me come to church week after week, and watched me struggle with my rambunctious children. She knew that I spent more time walking the halls while trying to keep them quiet than actually sitting in the meetings. I did not understand why she had picked that particular moment, when my patience was shot and my child was screaming, to tell me that my kids were full of potential.
As I walked away and pondered her words, my heart filled with hope. Although I was struggling, I had to believe that she knew something that I didn’t know. I think she knew MANY things that I didn’t know. And, maybe… just maybe… she was the answer to my prayers — a sweet assurance that this stage would not last forever, and that my seemingly impossible children had come to me with strong wills because they would NEED them to accomplish great things later in life. I found comfort in that.
I have looked back on this experience many times since then. I have thought about her words as I have struggled through countless difficult stages with my kids. I have thought about them as I have watched difficult stages fade into sweet stages of understanding and growth. I have thought about them as I have witnessed unreasonable children grow into thoughtful and self-motivated teenagers, whose strong wills are now ingrained into their characters in a way that strengthens them and others. There is now no doubt in my mind that this sweet woman knew what she was talking about that day so many years ago. She knew, as I am now learning, that strong will in a child is nothing to fear. It is a BLESSING.
Of course, those children require guidance. They require extra patience. They require strong leaders (parents) who gently, but firmly, remind them that they still have much to learn — that their way is not always the best way. They require parents who can teach them how to channel that strong will into useful pursuits, which sometimes seems daunting in and of itself.
There have been times in the midst of teaching such a child when I have felt like I was teaching a brick wall. There have been times when I have felt like I was going backwards instead of forwards. There have been times when I have desperately wanted to throw my hands in the air and scream, and times when I have done just that. But there have also been moments when I have felt like I was the student instead of the teacher. There have been moments when I have sat back and watched, in awe of the drive and conviction that is coming from that same child. In those moments, I have seen small glimpses of the greatness that is within them — the greatness that is still in the process of emerging from its cocoon.
And I knew that there’s a lot of defiance and stubbornness and tenacity and animation in my children, but there’s spunk and greatness, too, that’s going to emerge one day.
It’s true I haven’t had four babies who blissfully slept through the night at six weeks or even six months. I have kids who think they know more than I do (and sometimes, maddeningly, they do). I have children who brim with passion that sometimes comes out as joy and empathy, but it can come out as anger at times, too. I have children who question my every command. I have children who cleverly redirect the lessons I try to teach. Case in point: I once told them a story of two boys playing by a tree in Africa. One always obeyed his father without question. The other was more defiant and was always asking why this and why that. His name was Wicker. Wink, wink. Well, their father told them on this particular day to immediately come away from the tree and to run away from its branches toward him. The obedient one did as he was told and fell safely into his father’s arms. The defiant one asked why he needed to do that, and before his father could respond a poisonous snake that had been wrapped around one of the tree’s branches struck him.
“The boys were in Africa?” one of my children asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well, good thing black mambas don’t live in Georgia,” the same child quipped.
At that moment, I did not appreciate her insight or the fact that she knew black mambas were venomous snakes indigenous to Africa. I only saw defiance in her response.
Too often I am too focused on the bad, on what is driving me absolutely crazy.
Sometimes all I see is a lack of respect in my children when they don’t listen right away instead of recognizing their creative minds are going a million miles a minute. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only mom with children who sass off at times or who fight with each other.
A lot of times I fail to see the silver lining in their tenacity, their passion, their vivacity, and energy. I’ve had coaches say things about how smart and passionate one of my children plays. I’ve had a speech therapist tell me one of my kids has an extraordinary mind. I’ve had a homeschooling friend who taught one of my daughters in a co-op talk about what a passionate, focused artist my child is. I’ve had people comment on Thomas’s big and loud guffaws – as well as his big and loud screams. I’ve had several teachers comment on my children’s kindness or leadership skills.
My children sometimes drive me crazy. Their obstinate natures drive me crazy. Of course, they need to be taught and guided, but I don’t need to break their spirits in the process. I wouldn’t want to because as much as I get exhausted and overwhelmed and wish mothering was easier for me, I know in my heart that defiance can plant the seeds for strength and encourage. It can later manifest in the young adult who isn’t afraid to stand up for her pro-life views. It can blossom in the girl who says no to the boy pushing her past her comfort zone in the trenches of dating. It can surface in the athlete who gives her best on the playing field – and in life. It can come alive in the child who kisses her mom’s tears away and says, “I’m sorry, Mommy. Today has been a tough day. We can all try harder.”
I also know that someone else’s child who might seem easy to me might push her poor mom’s buttons. The grass is always greener…yada, yada, yada. Motherhood isn’t supposed to be easy for any of us. On the contrary, it’s supposed to be anything but. What motherhood is doing for me is liberating me from a life that surely would have been more about Me, Myself, and I rather than the Holy Trinity.
Sacrificial love doesn’t come easy for me. God knew I’d need something to humble me.
First, God gave me marriage. It was so much easier for me to be selfish when I was single. Now I’m not suggesting single people are more selfish than married folks; I just personally needed an extra push in the direction of holiness.
When I was on my own, my priorities were more worldly: Get a good job. Buy those chic, chunky espadrilles. As a spouse, my priorities have changed (although I still have a penchant for a cute pair of shoes). I’m living more for eternity. I frequently find real happiness when I look beyond myself and what the world has to offer and fix my gaze on making my husband happy.
I thought I was getting the whole holy thing down pat – respecting and loving my husband and biting my tongue when he left dirty laundry on the bathroom floor. Saintdom, lookout. Here I come!
Then I became a mom, and I realized there was a lot more to learn about giving until it hurts. And lately, there have been more difficult lessons in this constant emptying of self. With my husband working long hours and my kids getting antsy and being overtired from soaking up the last drops of summer before school’s back in, they have been, at times, driving me to the brink of absolute desperation.
I can’t do this, I think. But I can and I have…over and over. And I will do it again. Over and over.
My kids also are driving me toward something else besides a non compos mentis state. They are pushing me toward the recognition that yes, truly the very traits that make me want to poke my eyes out such as their indefatigable strong-wills, passion, and sensitivity are the very things that will, as the wise woman in the article above recognized, give my children spunk – but also towards the realization that “easy” kids wouldn’t have softened my hard edges. “Easy” kids wouldn’t have forced me to let go of my perfectionism, my ideals, my own wants and desires. “Easy” kids would have been, well, too easy for someone like me – a person who struggles with pride and wanting everyone to see me as having it all together when I clearly don’t.
I have an aunt who is one of the most faithful women I know. I’d assumed she’d always been like this until we started talking one day and she admitted she’d turned away from her faith for a long time.
“What caused you to change?” I asked.
“Being a mom to four kids under 5,” she said. “It brought me to my knees.”
This is what motherhood has done for me as well. It has brought me to my knees. It has become a very real way of me expressing God’s love. It has given me never-ending opportunities to grow in holiness. It has led to a life of authenticity – where I live a very real, messy, and life in front of others in my imperfect humanity but reclaimed through Jesus. It has handed me a “get out of jail” card and a life that is helping – tantrum-by-tantrum, defiant child by defiant child – to free me from my self-seeking, shackled ways.
Dear Skinny Jeans,
I haven’t forgotten about you although I am working on it and hopefully at the end of this letter my farewell to you will be complete. For some reason, every time I open my closet lately I hear your siren song calling my name, taunting me and telling me that life was better…I was better, stronger when I fit comfortably into you. Sometimes I mark my life by the times I weighed this or that. And, of course, there was the skinny jeans age when I effortlessly slid into your tapered denim legs. My mom was buying me a special birthday gift, and we were at a store I couldn’t afford to shop in at the time. My third baby was not quite one year old. I was running around raggedly. I took (foolish) pride in my lithe postpartum body. I found you, and you were even on sale. My mom and the sales lady all said you looked great on me, and I felt great wearing you. But maybe that was the problem right there. Clothes or the way they fit me shouldn’t dictate the way I feel, especially not the way I feel about myself, my strength, or my worth.
So the other day, knowing full well I am not as thin as I was in that glittery-gold “skinny jeans era” even though I cannot recall the last time I stepped onto a scale, I decided to try you on – just to see how you’d make you feel. Why do we women let a number on a scale or a clothing label or how a pair of jeans fit us shape the way we see ourselves and even our lives?
Well, I had to stuff my flesh into you. The zipper slid up easily enough, but then I had to lie supine on the bed to button you and then I felt like I couldn’t breathe. You didn’t make me feel good at all. You reminded me of failure. You reminded me of weakness. You made me fearful of the “fat” girl of my past – the one a boy spat upon on the bus, the one another group of vicious boys oinked at, the one who bore the nickname “Miss Piggy.”
Walking stiffly around my house with you clinging to me was a form of punishment, and there was also an unrealistic hope that you would quickly stretch and fit me loosely as you once had. I found myself mourning the old me – not one my critical self labeled as the “fat” one – but the one who was thin enough that you hung loosely on my hips. Now you dug into my hips like sharp teeth, and I wasn’t sure which pain was worse – the searing physical pinch of tight fabric on skin or the emotional pain. It wasn’t so much that I was married to the desire of looking good in you any longer. It was just I wanted to protect myself against future pain. I equated wearing you with happiness and security when really those things have nothing to do with my waistline. And I was afraid that allowing you to become tight on my waistline was allowing myself to slip back into that lonely, uncertain girl who got teased on the school bus.
I peeled your denim off me like it was second skin I was shedding. I cried at first because of what I had lost – a size 25 inch waistline, power, ephemeral happiness. But then I started to weep for a different reason. I hated it that someone who was supposed to be a body image role model, someone who was blessed with daughters whom she wanted to teach to reclaim the beauty of Creation, someone who wrote a book called Weightless and now I felt weighted down by this burden of self-loathing. This led more tears to flow.
Rationally, I know that thinness does not equal happiness. It is an illusion. Skinny people suffer. Overweight people suffer. Rich and poor suffer. Most human beings suffer. I also know that I like to pretend that I was gifted with you during a blissful, healthy time, but this is a half-truth. I had happy moments, but I was thin partly because life had lost its luster and so had food because I was mired in the darkness of postpartum depression. On the outside, I looked happy enough, but on the inside I was breaking and crippled by sadness and uncertainty. That’s been a trademark of big chunks of my life – smile, be the life of the party, and then go home and weep, question every word you uttered, berate yourself for all that you are and all that you lack.
And you, Skinny Jeans, I was allowing you to be another reminder of all that I wasn’t and couldn’t be instead of seeing you as just a silly piece of clothing from a distant part of my life. My expectations of still wearing you comfortably after four children and when I eat fully and richly without counting calories and exercise out of enjoyment and not as a punishment or obligation, it was absurd. And, yet, I couldn’t let go of you right away. So I draped you on a hanger and hung you on a silver knob of my dresser where I would see you every morning and each night in hopes that you would remind me of what I once was and give me the drive to be stronger, to work harder because I couldn’t let myself go. I couldn’t return to what I saw as that unlovable, little girl hidden behind too many layers of flesh, the “fat,” ridiculed one.
A reader once emailed me that while she appreciated my book and writings on body image, she also found it disheartening because in her words I was a thin, pretty woman, so how could I really know what it’s like to feel overweight and unlovable? At first, I was angry. Who was she to tell me what I was qualified to write about? That’s what my pride said. Then I was hurt because I wanted to tell her she didn’t know me when I was the overweight kid and the object of fat-shaming and bullying. Of course, she also didn’t know me when I was the ugly duckling turned swan and very confused by the new attention from boys and people calling me pretty. It didn’t sit well with me. I felt like the same person through all those phases, but people saw me and treated me differently based solely on a change of my physical appearance, and sometimes I gloried in it – all that newfound attention. Other times I resented it. I just wanted people to love me for me and not comment on my aesthetics. At the same time, my peers’ admiration gave me satisfaction. I can remember going out to eat with girlfriends and nibbling on shards of lettuce while they took down greasy cheeseburgers and slurped up thick milkshakes and thinking that I was stronger than they were.
And if people thought the thin me was better than the heavy me, then how much better would they think an even thinner me was?
So I restricted more, but it wore on me. And sometimes there was something freeing in scarfing down Twizzlers or globs of gooey cookie dough. Eating was a guilty pleasure instead of just a pleasure. I was the perfectionist who found short-lived happiness and relief in overeating because it felt like a moment of freedom and reckless abandon. But the guilt that followed was overwhelming. I couldn’t let myself to return to that bigger, scarier version of myself.
But what I know now even as I mourn the skinny jeans era is that I’m not afraid of gaining weight or being what the world might consider “fat.” What I’m really afraid of is rejection. I want to be loved and lovable – able to be loved. We all do. Don’t assume a woman perceived as beautiful by society doesn’t deal with loneliness or self-hatred any less than a woman who is seen as overweight might. The outside is a poor indicator of what’s going on in the inside for a lot of people.
One day my 10-year-old waltzed into my room. Sometimes I look at her and feel equally proud and sad. Proud because she is so comfortable in her own skin. She sees her body as a strong instrument that can run a mile in just over seven minutes and can take her across the soccer field or basketball court rather than an object to be fixed or tweaked. In a world that lauds self-improvement, this is a young girl who is satisfied with herself and sees that she is good enough. I was nine when I first considered dieting. A few years after that I had started to hate my body and wanted to hide all that extra flesh away. I decided I would be the funny, outgoing girl to distract people from the extra weight I was carrying around. My oldest daughter has made no such decisions. She’s herself because she’s herself. She’s outgoing because she likes people, not because she wants them to like her.
Well, she noticed you, Skinny Jeans, hanging on my dresser. “Are those new?” she asked.
“No,” I told her.
“They’re cute. They look like they might fit me,” she remarked.
My girl takes after her daddy. She is tall. I have already started passing down old running shorts or tops I no longer wear because she’s nearly my height, and her hands and feet are already bigger than my own. She has just started to take an interest in trying on my clothes.
“Can I try them on?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “But they’ll be too big on you.”
My beautiful daughter still thankfully impervious to any trace of body image angst yanked the jeans off the hanger. She clearly did not revere you, O Skinny Jeans, as I did. You were just a cute pair jeans. Nothing more, nothing less. She tried you on, and I was shocked to discover you were just a little long and your waistline was only an inch or two too big. You almost fit my athletic 10-year-old daughter, and I had been berating my approaching-40-body that has been pregnant five times and brought four children into the world that you were too tight on me. Why was it that I was using an old pair of jeans as a barometer of my self-worth? Why was I so afraid of letting go of being thin and just being satisfied with being fit and happy? You were given to me under subterranean duress when I didn’t feel like eating or doing much of anything else. You do not personify joy or happiness. And my no longer fitting into you like I once did doesn’t mean I am on the verge of being my scared and rejected 9-year-old self.
Skinny Jeans, you are nothing but fabric – and not even all that much of fabric considering my 10-year-old will probably comfortably wear you in a year or two. You are not the Holy Grail of Happiness. You never have been. You, the scale, my weight – none of this defines me. I refuse to listen to your taunting, to the lies you whisper to me that if I lose enough weight so that you sag on my hips again, I will somehow be happier or inoculated against self-doubt. I will not hold onto you or another life I wish I was living. This is where I am now. I am going to be content with this beautiful now.
Thanks to you, I decided to sift through my closet and purge. I wasn’t just saying good-bye to old clothes or clothes that never made me feel good about the natural design of my body, it was a valediction to negativity and an illusory hope that life was better in the past (when I fit well into this bit of clothing) or would be better in the future (when this article of clothing fit me again) when it’s pretty damn wonderful right now. It was a purging of self-loathing, self-scrutinizing. A purging of ridiculous expectations and holding onto certain articles of clothing that represent a life I think I want to live rather than being content with the life I am living. Why do we sugarcoat the past and glorify the future while muddying up the present? I realized that in holding onto all these different sizes of clothing – the “skinny” clothes, the “just-in-case-I-gain-a-few-pounds-or-get-pregnant-again clothes” – I wasn’t allowing myself to fully live in the now.
What I decided to keep were the life-I-am-living-right-now-clothes and the if-I-really-stop-to-consider-it-the-life-I-am-so-grateful-and-happy-to-be-living-right-now-clothes, the comfortable clothes, the jeans that my figure fills well now and has for the past few years, the pretty, delicate, bohemian lace top I feel feminine yet adventurous in, the cozy sweaters, the line of brightly colored fitness clothes I have covered many miles in or held a plank in. The neon tank (“You look so pretty in those bright, neon colors,” I hear the friend who gave it to me as a birthday gift saying) I wore when I recently ran a 5K where I somehow placed first in my age group and third overall in the women’s division. These remind me that the size on the label of my clothing have nothing to do with my strength or my happiness.
Ironically, back when I wore you, Skinny Jeans, I felt too tried to run or to do a push-up. Now I run as my body allows, which isn’t as much as I’d like, but God has a way of humbling me and reminding me that sometimes a weaker body yields a stronger soul. These days I weight train because I enjoy it and because it’s something my husband and I can do together in our basement after the kids are asleep. I play pickup basketball games with my kids and end up sweaty and happy. I jump on the trampoline with my little jumping beans giggling around me. I dance in the kitchen while listening to Pandora and making my family’s dinner, and my kids either join in or affectionately call me a geek. I was always a geek. After I made my transformation, a boy said, I was a geek trapped in a hot body. But like the beautiful weight loss memoir I couldn’t put down, It Was Me All Along. Once a geek, always a geek and proud of it.
I am not going to fear my (heavier) past or yearn for a different (thinner) future. I am not going to see myself as a failure just because I still sometimes struggle with seeing food as a necessary pleasure and as fuel rather than thinking about it too much and wondering if maybe I, too, should go paleo or give up gluten or try to be a vegetarian again when I know that for me everything in moderation is the best dietary path to take. I am not going to hide away and not write for weeks on end because the ghosts of my eating disorder have returned to haunt and tempt me and I feel like I am a hypocrite if I try to be encouraging when maybe we all need encouragement from real people like me who have suffered and still do from time to time. I am going to share my mistakes, my weaknesses, these big, confusing feelings I sometimes still have about myself, my weight, my personality, my life in hopes that they might help someone else out there. I am not going to let an old pair of jeans – or a new pair of jeans either – control my happiness. I can choose joy. I can always choose joy.
I imagine a ceremonial burning where I hurl you into the flames and watch your faded denim turn to ashes, but I then I realize that would give you far too much power. You’re just clothing. My daughter might need a new pair of jeans in the future. My thrifty side can’t deny that, so I’ll just tuck you away in a storage closet upstairs. As for some of your friends – other pieces of clothing that don’t make me feel good about myself or my body like the floral pencil skirt that never fit me right, but I held onto thinking that something was wrong with my body’s proportions and thinking I could change my natural shape instead of considering that perhaps something was wrong with the cut of the skirt – well, I’m moving on and donating some to charity and selling some on Thred Up. I don’t need to keep anything around that makes me unhappy or tempts me to criticize my body. Clothes like that are like bad boyfriends, and I had one of those in the past who made me feel just as badly about myself but that I kept around for far too long thinking there wouldn’t be another guy who would take me. And here I am married to a man who would have taken me when I was 16 if I’d given him more of a chance, a man who loves every inch of me and always will, a man who says he loves a happy me the best no matter what the blasted scale says or what jeans I’m wearing. I hope these pieces of clothing will find their way into another woman’s closet and that they will make her feel good and happy and content with the life she’s living. Because whether we are a size 0 or a size 20, we all deserve that.
I don’t have much of a potty mouth, and I never have. Well, I suppose that statement might not be entirely true if you define “potty mouth” as having the maturity of an 8-year-old and finding words like “poot” and “beanie” funny. Guilty as charged. But I rarely swear. I don’t even like to say the word “sucks.” I’d much rather say, “Oh, fiddlesticks!” and endure the eye-roll of my oldest. She insists a lot of kids use the word “sucks.” I told her she will be around people her entire life who make the wrong choice and that in our family “sucks” is blacklisted and if she says it, she owes me a dollar. End of discussion.
But lately a big thought bubble full of all sorts of naughty expletives has been ballooning up above my head, and the reason for this is simple: I have a 3-year-old boy. I am potty training that 3-year-old boy. Actually, that’s all wrong. The only one getting trained is moi – in the art of self-restraint in keeping those lovely expletives that make “sucks” look like part of the vernacular of Downton Abbey floating silently off in the horizon.
This is no easy task, especially when #@!* keeps happening – not in the potty but in the pants. And gone are the days of cute, breastfeeding, mustardy baby poop. People think my 3-year-old is closer to five. He’s a big boy with a big appetite. He eats a cornucopia of deliciousness. Everybody poops but generally the bigger the pooper, the bigger the poop. I’m dealing with some serious excrements and after all that green St. Patrick’s Day food, I’ve been faced with green poop. My 5-year-old eyed Thomas’s most recent gift. “It looks like the panda’s poop!” A recent visit to the zoo left the kids in awe of the gloriously green poop a panda squeezed out in front of us. Do you know how much bamboo a panda bear eats each day? Forty to 50 pounds of the green stalks. Give Thomas a little green smoothie, green bread, and green eggs, and he starts pooping like a panda.
Whereas my girls found the idea of pooping in their pants gross, Thomas doesn’t really see the problem with it. This is the same child who was nicknamed Poopcasso as a baby after I found him finger-painting with his doo-doo during quiet time. Poop in the pants ain’t no big thing, but don’t you dare say something like, “This is gross,” while cleaning him up because that’s when Mr. Sensitive comes out. Tears form in those big, brown eyes. “Don’t say it’s gross, Mommy,” he says.
Oh, but it is.
What’s been odd to me about potty training this boy is the very first time he used the big boy potty, he, in fact, pooped in it. Everyone had told me how hard boys were to potty train, and I was feeling all high and mighty. MY boy isn’t going to be hard at all. Look at him pooping like a big boy without me even putting him on the potty! When will I learn to never, ever self-congratulate myself in the parenting trenches? It always, always backfires and leaves me eating a hefty slice of humble pie or in this case, cleaning what looks like chocolate silk pie but smells like toxic waste from a bare bottom.
Yet, for several days he did his business on the potty, and my mommy hubris swelled. I never had to bribe the girls, but I was popping jelly beans into his mouth let and right. Lots of positive reinforcement going on. Then one day when the rain finally stopped and the sun was dancing in the sky, warm and bright, Thomas headed outside to play – and to poop. Ever since then he’s wanted to take care of nature’s duty in, well, nature.
Now to be fair, he does pee on the potty quite a bit, but he also frequently relieves himself on the floor and sometimes on big sister’s dolls. He doesn’t like the way diapers feel on his bigger-than-a-toddler-body and routinely complains of wedgies, but he also isn’t too fond of underwear. Or clothes. Going naked and commando is how he likes it and also how he seems to have the least amount of accidents. But I can’t bring him to the soccer fields, grocery store, and playground naked. Can I?
Oh, I know this too shall pass. (This too shall pass…the mantra I fervently chant during any difficult parenting period.) He won’t always be dropping huge loads in his pants or walking around commando. (Will he?) And it’s so easy to sugarcoat the potty training phases of my daughters when, in reality, we had our own challenges. My second, Rachel was a breeze, but Madeline, my firstborn, had some major poop issues. No, she never pooped her in pants. She just didn’t poop. The little control freak was master of her bowels and while my husband and the pediatrician told me I had to make sure she tried to poop every day, I learned quickly that you can’t make a feisty child sleep, eat, or go potty. Not that I didn’t try. I would sit in the bathroom for hours with the child, holding her hand, playing all sorts of games. “Ariel is in the cave and wants to go out swimming with her fishy friends! Can you help her get out?” In case you’re really confused here and gave birth to reasonable children who just felt the urge and went to the bathroom, Ariel was her poop and the cave was her bum. I’d read Everybody Poops aloud to her in the bathroom. And Great Expectations. And All’s Well that Ends Well. But it rarely ended well. Usually, Mom and Anti-Pooper both ended up in tears. And still, she held it in. She. Would. Not. Poop. I plied her with smoothies and dried fruit and lots of food that’s good for your inner plumbing. I’d light candles in the bathroom to calm her. I would gently coax her like the most patient poop doula, but she wasn’t ready to bring her baby into the world. On an adult dosage of Miralax she managed to hold her poop in for 15 days. That’s more than two weeks, people. Hello, enema. That finally did the trick.
Then there was my third child. Oh, she potty trained easily enough and thankfully, pooped on the potty without trouble, but when she got angry at me, what did she do? She pulled a Regan a la The Exorcist on me and stubbornly glared in my direction while she relieved herself on the only rug in our hardwood floor home. I can’t count the times I would tell her no to something and find her peeing on the floor and then feigning it was an “accident.”
Believe you me, there were some big curse word thought bubbles floating above my head back then, too.
But these days none of my girls have accidents or even pretend to have accidents when they’re upset with Mommy. I still have to remind the oldest to listen to her body sometimes because she is such an active, happy kid, she doesn’t like to take time out to do anything as boring as sitting on a potty.
I know Thomas will get there eventually. I recently tried to bribe him with fancy superhero light-up shoes since his friend across the street got a pair when he potty trained. Thomas thought the shoes were pretty cool until duty (or should I say dooty?) called. “I don’t want those shoes,” he told me firmly, and he opened the back door and headed outside like the free-spirited animal he is.
And I sighed and thought, “This suck… errr…this stinks.” Unfortunately, both figuratively and literally.