F-A-T

I've mentioned here how hard it is to raise girls -- how I need to have high self esteem so that they do.  I have to be the role model they look up too.  

Still, after 4 kids, my body has been through the wringer.  And with a colicky baby and 4 kids under the age of 6, getting to the gym frequently is a pipe dream.  And a healthy diet?  Ha!  I eat whatever I can grab in the 10 seconds a day I have between the kids, the dog, the house, and work. Hell, getting 5 hours of sleep straight would be manna from heaven. 

Why do I mention this?  We baptized BabyBug last week.  Which meant that I needed to wear something other than yoga pants and a spit up stained sweat shirt.

But nothing in my closet fit because I'm stuffing my face with Girl Scout Cookies at every available opportunity and only doing half of a work out once every ten days.  

So I decided to head to the mall, Girlie in tow, for some girl time.  But nothing there fit either.  I took picture after picture to send to my sisters for their opinion, but nothing worked.  I wasn't feeling it. 

I was fat.  And tired.  And, sweet Jesus, I looked old.  And whoever decided that three way mirrors were a good idea should be shot.  

And what was worse?  I couldn't denigrate myself because Girlie was with me.  I couldn't say my arms are too flabby or my butt is too big or my stomach is too poochy.  I didn't want her to think it was okay to say that about your own body.  I want her to love her body, no matter what.  I am trying to show her how to love her body by loving mine, but I just couldn't.

I felt fat.  And I couldn't call myself fat.  And I couldn't spell it out either, because she learned to read. 

So I was frustrated, and miserable, and wanted to cry.   And it was when I tried on this that she said the one thing that made me feel beautiful: 

No, I didn't buy this.  Ultimately, I decided on pants so I didn't have to shave my legs.

"Mommy, you look like a princess!"

She doesn't know that my butt is too big, that I still have a "love pouch," from where I carried her and her brother and sisters, or that I have what my sisters affectionately call "teacher flab" arms.  She doesn't know that I need to go to the gym and stick to my diet.  She had not idea that the sheer blouse was too boxy, or the skirt was too long, or that my double chin makes an appearance when I smile too big.  

To her, I am a princess.