As I look down upon these unfortunate folds under my clothes, the spots, the tiny misplaced hairs I cannot help but thrust judgment. An endless barge of criticism and insults spit from my mind. Somehow the amazing deal on the skirt I purchased is overshadowed by the number on the tag. By hanging it next to dozens of much smaller numbers that cannot be worn. How is it that I have found myself in this place? How can a former bulimic stand upon a scale and have these number show?
Undetectably, I find myself scanning other women around me. Sizing up the other mothers as we walked through the zoo today. Are her shoes nicer than mine? Her waist smaller? Her hair shinier? This constant judgement and assessment. Cataloging each one and scoring myself against them, it’s so ingrained in my mind. Buy why? There’s beauty in our soft spots, in our fuzzy ones, in bumps and moles and imperfections that make us mothers and women.
My children couldn’t possibly care less what size is on my pants or number on the scale. Bella finds great pleasure in pressing my belly button and laughing as she slaps my belly and makes silly noises. She lifts her shirt and giggles for me to do the same. These are the things that should matter. Her smile. Bear’s first wiggling tooth. These moments, not the mother next to me at the zoo in her size 2 jeans. Does she size herself up, glancing my way and desiring my purse? My cellphone? There is always something someone has. Physical. Material. All so ephemeral.
What will it take for us to stop comparing, criticizing, coveting?
To not define ourselves by numbers. To not limit our happiness by marketing ploys. When will being a woman, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a mother be enough?
I hope I figure it out before my daughter is old enough to ask herself these questions.
Linked with Just Be Enough.
