I did something yesterday at the breakfast table that I promised myself I wouldn’t do: I criticized my body in front of my son.
Specifically, I said I was a postmenopausal blimp.
(My eating disorder therapist is somewhere cringing so hard right now).
The comment, while dumb, is partly true: I am postmenopausal at 32 after going into surgical menopause. But, even when it came out of my mouth, I knew I was breaking my own rule. 😬
My rule about body talk
My rule is: Don’t talk sh*t about your body in front of Biscuit, because it will normalize self-criticism and judgment, when what I really want to model for him is self-love and acceptance.
Even if we never make a comment about our children’s appearances, our own negative talk about our bodies sends clear messages about how people “should” look. Kids are filing away even our little comments about our cellulite, double chins, wrinkles, and bellies and using them to construct a mold for themselves and others.
When we say, “Oh, I could never wear that,” our kids are listening. They’ll remember (I know I did).
Millennial body baggage
I’m a Millennial, so I grew up in the height of the heroin-chic 90s, the era of “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” We watched our moms yo-yo diet through South Beach, Slimfast, Weight Watchers, and Hydroxycut, and listened when they said “a moment on the lips; a lifetime on the hips.”
It became normal and maybe even expected for women to criticize their bodies in lieu of celebrating them. It is still often more socially acceptable for women to talk sh*t about themselves than to say:
“I’m beautiful and I know it.”
Fast-forwarding 20 years
Last year, when I decided to have my remaining ovary removed and go into rapid menopause, I knew that my body was going to change. I knew that with menopause would come more belly fat and a slower metabolism.
Still, while the decision to undergo a radical hysterectomy was more than worth it because it gave me the most mental stability I’ve ever had (thanks, menopause!), it was and is difficult to watch myself age so quickly. I have many days, like yesterday, when I resent the fact that my body fast-forwarded to the age of 55. I have to fight much harder to maintain a relatively stable weight, and I have to rely on an aggressive regimen of hormone therapy to keep any muscle tone.
Despite being grateful for my body and mental state, I hate feeling flabby. It makes me feel shallow to say it, but: I wanna look my age.
Being postmenopausal has forced me to confront a lot of baggage about my body. My harsh inner critic is a sonofabitch, and I might be waging a war at times with my self-image, but I am determined not to let it play out in front of my son.
What happens when we talk sh*t about our bodies in front of our kids
If Biscuit internalizes all my judgments about my appearance and weight:
Would it cause him to judge his own body as he gets older?
Would he assume other women and girls in his life should feel that way about themselves, too?
I think it’s hypocritical of me to expect him to love his body if I’m actively showing him that I do not love mine. And I’m learning how (it’s just a work in progress).
Isn’t that one of the hardest things about parenting: That we have to really model all the good stuff in order to make it stick? We’ve gotta talk the talk and walk the walk.
I guess that’s what they mean when they say parenting makes you a better person.
What to do about it
When I get really down on myself about my appearance, I try to go back to something my first really good therapist said to me when I was in college:
“Would you ever talk to a loved one the way you talk to yourself?”
I could never be as critical of Biscuit as I am of myself. I would never talk about his thighs or his belly like I think about mine. I would never point out his wrinkles or “imperfections” and tell him he’s lazy if he doesn’t do something to “fix” them.
So, this is me, promising myself and you and him that I’m gonna do better. I’m gonna live by my own rule. ᠅
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