It was a laid-back family kind of party where you bring a blanket, and take walks around the farm. We feel very comfortable there and the boys run around and play with their friends while we talk to ours. It reminds me of summer parties from my childhood. Returning to my parents just before it was time to leave, sweaty and tired and tan after playing capture the flag in a Midwestern neighborhood.
There was a band and Don asked me to dance. While we danced Jack and Oscar joined us and we formed our own little mosh pit. When the song was over, following what he had witnessed his daddy do, Oscar asked me to dance. I put my flip flops back on and heading back to the driveway which was serving as our dance floor. He twirled me around until I got dizzy. We held hands and did a ring around-the-rosey type dance we made up until the band stopped for the night.
We were sweaty and tired and tan when we returned to our blanket.
On the ride home Don texted me the picture he had taken while Oscar and I were dancing. One of those pictures that someday, when I'm old I'll look at it and won't be able to recall a time when Oscar was shorter than me. It was a perfect moment frozen in time. I shared it on social media. I showed Oscar and he said it was a cool picture. All was well in the world.
My cyber friends saw the beauty in the picture too and a lot of people liked it. The following day I viewed the photo again. The barn party weekend euphoria had ended and it was Sunday night. As I looked at the photo I said to Don "This is a horrible picture, I look 6 months pregnant, I should delete it." Don didn't respond because after 18 years he doesn't entertain negative comments I say about my body. But a low little voice from behind the couch did.
Not only did Oscar hear me say it was a horrible picture, but also that I looked pregnant and that I wanted to delete it. He asked me why looking pregnant was a bad thing and why I lied about liking the picture yesterday. In his 8-year-old mind, he thought I wanted to delete dancing with him from my memory.
I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.
Being the only woman in my house, I try so hard, maybe extra hard, to show the boys that I love who I am. I want them to see me taking care of myself, so I can take care of them. I want them to see me sweaty with no makeup on when I come home from the gym. I want them to see me put on lipstick and heels before I go to work. Or wear a dress to go out to a concert.
When Jack commented that all I ate was salad, I tried eating a bigger variety so that they wouldn't assume that all women just eat salads.
In public, I make a point to comment on how beautiful pregnant women are. Yet... here I was, saying the opposite. I mean, in his mind, if pregnant women are beautiful, why would I be complaining about it if I felt I looked pregnant in a photo?
Obviously, as a mother of four large babies despite my best efforts, there are times and angles that my mid-section is not flattering. How shallow of me to focus on the one thing in the photo that didn't matter. The one thing that nobody else was thinking. The one thing that I shouldn't even care about.
He sat on the couch and I told him he was right. That I do love that photo and I loved dancing with him even more. That I was wrong to say mean things about anyone, especially myself. After all, my body is amazing and it was able to nurture and carry his brothers and him.
But let me be completely honest. I don't tell my body that on a regular basis. In fact, if my body was my friend, it would have unfriended me long ago. I continually look in the mirror and see things I don't like. In the process, I completely overlook the things I should. Some of them stem from things that have happened to me when I was a teen. Other things are my opinion based on the unrealistic expectations I alone have decided as to what beauty looks like.
I keep those all in my head, until I don't, and one of my sons hears me putting down his mommy.
Kids are always watching and listening. Even when you think they aren't. When they are engrossed in their Nintendo DS or phones or watching YouTube. They listen. I know this because I can speak the words "dinner is ready" and they come running, even when moments earlier I screamed at the top of my lungs asking whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher and nobody responded. They hear you moan in the mirror. They see you stuff your body into garments to make you appear that you take up less space in the world. They notice when you look yourself straight in the eye and frown.
I don't have daughters. But I have an important task, in raising sons. I need to let the boys know, that women are beautiful because of who they are, what they are capable of doing as human beings and not what they look like. And if they don't like something, they change it. But there is no room for judgment. Especially in oneself. The people whom I love know that I love them hard. And, that should include myself too. All of me.
What Oscar saw in that picture is everything I aspire to be. He sees the beauty in the first woman who has ever loved him and will never stop. And he sees his mommy. Who he asked to dance and she said yes and if he asks again, as long as I am able, I always will. That is true beauty and has absolutely nothing to do with the size of my waist.
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