“Listen. You’ve got a figure I’d kill a man and a small cat for. If I was anywhere close to your size, I’d spend the majority of my time walking around naked, slapping on lipgloss and heels, and the other part of my time would be in jail. Because I was walking around naked. Slapping on lipgloss and heels.”
That 15 year old girl of mine has crossed the line into womanhood.
(That was me to her after she came out of the fitting room holding the cutest bathing suit ever.)
(That she then jumbled back on to the hanger and slung back at the rack.)
“I hate my thighs. They’re huge.” (Do they have hail damage on the back? Then shut up.)
“I swear one boob is bigger than the other one!” (Do you have to hoist them up just to get them above sea level? Then shut up.)
“I’m NOT buying that size in jeans…no way. I just won’t get any.” (Are you double-digiting it? Then shut up.)
After all of that, I just raised my right arm up a bit, blankly looked at her and shook my flappy batwing at her.
(This ain’t nothing a lot of you moms haven’t already blown through. It’s just new to me. And my patience.)
(Humor me, here.)
I have definitely been plopped right into the middle of motherhood. It’s like I was thrown behind the wheel of a car for the first time with no practice drive in an empty high school parking lot.
Motherhood. Challenge accepted.
Sans the episiotomy. Sans the contractions. Sans the baby shower.
However, I still got the stretch marks on my ass.
And on my hips. And my boobs ain’t seen “perky” since 1987.
(I might not have had to buy diapers…but I buy maxi-pads. I might not have had to hear crying at 1:30 in the morning…but I hear a TV still on at 1:30 in the morning.)
Now I have to, not only preach to me, I have to preach to her.
“Life ain’t Hollywood, Tutz. Real women have curves.”
“Those boobs you are trying to hide now are the boobs your flat-chested girlfriends will be stripping to pay for later.”
“If you got it, flaunt it.”
(Her daddy ain’t always loving my words of life. I get a few eye rolls now and then.)
(But hey…he don’t whine about his hips and how shark week hits right before a beach weekend either.)
Yep. If Barbie was a real woman.
No wonder girls get all freakish about size and shit.
(And I’m walking around Target flapping my batwings.)
(I must admit, I do have fun with these things.)
It has taken me 44 years…but I’m finally good with me.
(Though I still try to come up with a way to get rid of my batwings while choking down chips and salsa and brownie batter straight from the bowl and moonpies. And I contemplate this as I shake them at me in the bathroom mirror.)
But I’m good with me. Now. My thighs have finally taken a backseat to my health and outlook.
It took me this long to find the confidence to say that.
I’m good with me.
And I know in time, she’ll find that confidence, too. When she tosses her thighs in the backseat.
(I do wish I could have chosen the cheeks those dimples decided to call home, but hey…dimples are dimples, right?)