Big Mama

Growing up weight weighed on me. Between being dragged to my mom’s Weight Watchers meetings and Jenny Craig check ins; and my grandmother’s constant harping about watching what “we” eat, apologizing to people when I ordered what was deemed to be too much and offering bribes for losing weight before middle school, weight, specifically my weight, was on my radar from early on.

You see, I’m fat. I’ve always been fat. The last time I was seen in a bikini I was around three years old. By the time I reached eighth grade I’d been oinked at, mooed at, poked, pinched, punched, pushed, tripped (to see if I would bounce), and called every name in the book … blubber butt, fatso, fatass, chunk monkey, lardo, the list goes on and on. I’d had boys pretend to like me to embarrass me, girls prank call me to hurl more names at me outside of school, fake friends reveal that their mothers made them play with me. I know what it’s like to not be like the other kids. I know what it’s like to feel like a completely flawed person because my size is not “normal,” not the same as everyone else’s. I know what it’s like to be ostracized, to obsess over losing weight that never comes off, to lie about having plans and friends and boyfriends “at another school” to avoid the embarrassment of admitting the fact that no one actually wants to hang out with the fat girl. Thankfully, my family moved in eighth grade and things got better in a new school environment without the usually bullies.

Those lessons from very early on of body image have stuck  with me though, and last year reared their ugly heads when my grandmother fat shamed me for thinking about ordering dessert at my birthday dinner. At 35 years old, I could still be reduced to a pile of shame, embarrassment and fury by a well-timed comment and a small but disapproving shake of the head. And a year and two months later, I’m still kicking myself for relenting, for putting down the dessert menu and hiding the hot silent tears behind a pretend task out of sight in my purse.

The biggest reason I’m still angry with myself for backing down so wholly and immediately is because my daughter, three years old at the time, was with us at dinner. I don’t think she had any idea what was happening and thankfully didn’t say anything about our lack of cake at a birthday dinner. But, I knew then that that wouldn’t be the case the next time. She’s smart and perceptive, and she knows that at birthdays we cake! More than that though, she knows when we are upset or hurting. And telling my daughter that my someone thinks my fat body is something to feel ashamed of, to hide and lie about and pretend it doesn’t exist struck me as so unhealthy.

I realized then that it was up to me as a woman, and as a mother, to teach my daughter to love her body. To take care of it and keep it as healthy as possible, but more than that to treasure it. To know it’s beautiful and special and unique to her and that the size of her body doesn’t define her. And to make sure she knows that fat isn’t a bad word. Being fat isn’t a character flaw or a reason for ridicule.

In doing so, in reiterating how much I love her strong legs or her healthy belly I’ve realized that I love those things about myself too. When she tells me how much she loves my “squishy arms” I tell her thank you! And I tell her one thing I love about my arms – that I love how strong they are because they let me hold her close. And every single time her love of my squishy arms comes up and I thank her profusely, my love for myself increases a little bit.

Because this small little person who has yet to learn that fat and love rarely go together in this day and age of Instagram filters and waif thin models and diet fad after unhealthy diet fad loves me. She loves every part of me, and as long as I can raise her to love every part of her body rather that hate it’s perceived flaws, to eat that cake on your birthday and stand up to that insecure bully I’m teaching her that she has value and is beautiful and is so so much more than her weight.