Detriment

Irrational. 

It's a word I found myself repeating over and over to myself on Saturday morning as I stood in my kitchen. I was being irrational. Completely and utterly irrational. Ridiculous even, and it's made me realize exactly how detrimental self-talk can be. You see, while I was making myself a piece of toast and a cup of coffee before I got ready to work out, I almost called myself that f-word that I promised I wouldn't.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I shouldn't be eating this bread. Carbs are bad.

Just because you are eating something does not make you fat. Tell that to my squishy stomach. I can't believe I wasn't working out all last month.

You are not fat because you haven't been working out. You were busy. You can work out today and tomorrow. You just need your routine. Hmm, I was pretty busy... 

Working out today is not going to make you instantly skinny. It is going to help you be strong, and it will make you feel good. Working out today will make me feel good... and I need to eat in order to have energy and be strong.

You are not fat. You are being irrational. I am being irrational.

This, my friends, was the internal dialogue that went down in a pair of neon shorts while standing in a half-assed tree pose (otherwise known as my cookin' pose) in the kitchen. It's a conversation that once upon a time, I would have had out loud, in front of a mirror - until the day F asked me if he was "fat". It's a conversation lots of us have with ourselves and it's a conversation that needs to stop. I'd dump the friend or the boyfriend who made me feel bad about my body, so it's time I dump my own habit of doing it. 

It might sound silly, but self-talk is important. It's the stuff we do in the minutes before a date or an interview or while we're trying to keep ourselves together standing in the longest line-up known to humanity at Starbucks when we just really need that coffee. But as much as we make it through hard times by telling ourselves to breathe, we also tear ourselves down unnecessarily. Or at least, I do. 

Tell yourself how awesome you are today. Made it to work on time? Go you! YOU SHOWERED? Fantastic - go eat a cookie! Seriously, eat the cookie. Don't put yourself in a state of detriment. You're better than that.

Fat (part 2)

I am the problem.

I've been a part of many conversations bashing the media and Hollywood in particular for the skinny-obsession, and I've stood in a different light in lots of these. Sometimes, I feel like it's our job as individuals and as parents to remind ourselves and teach our children about the importance of healthy eating, exercise and body image. Sometimes, I want to karate chop the media and the fashion world for creating this skin-n-bones monster in the first place, but then I glance at my workout playlist on my iPhone and remember it's called "Get Skinny".

Yup. It's a thing. I dread standing on the scale at work, and yet it's become a compulsion because I'm feeding the monster (no pun intended...) that I hate.

"Please be less than..."

And I remember dancing around in the Gap fitting room because the 00 pants fit me, or the times I've skipped a meal (or several) because I felt fat.

I remember the times I've eaten something and felt guilty. I remember the time I let the word "fat" fly out of my mouth like a derogatory word, because although I'm an advocate of loving your body, I'm terrified of gaining an ounce.

I am the problem. I'm a part of it.

Fat is another four letter word to me, and it's one that I wish I could help my toddler unlearn. Because, like his Mommy accidentally taught him, F uses FAT to describe things he doesn't like because he's 3 and it makes perfect sense to him, just like I would use gross, ugly or smelly to describe something I'm not really feelin'.

But then, I remember the time that F asked me if he was fat, because he learned it from me.

So, we can sit around and bitch at the media and build a cross to crucify the media, and then force-feed a bunch of stick-thin models and actresses a bunch of cheeseburgers but that's not the fix. I love my Mom, and she's a wonderful friend and mother and role model, but she's also where I learned to stand in the mirror and say "I look fat". The world isn't always going to be what we like. We can't control every message out there, but we can control our own. It's time I change my message.

I caught myself in the nick of time tonight.

"What are you doing?" F asked as I set up my Wii Zumba, strapping on my belt and stretching a bit. When I told him I was exercising he asked why... and do you know what I started to say? So I won't be fat. I'm glad I caught myself, because that's not why I should be exercising, and that's not what I want my amazing 3 year old to hear.

"So I can be strong and healthy."

Because that is the type of child I want to raise.

Painted

Ten.

That's how old I was when I first discovered stretch marks all over my inner thighs. Angry-looking and purple, I didn't know what they were. I hated them. For years, I refused to wear shorts. Even in the heat of summer, I wore jeans or Capri pants. By the time I was a pre-teen, stretch marks covered my thighs and the first few faint ones made their appearances on my butt and hips.

As I got older, though, they faded and around the time I hit junior high they were less-visible. I let myself wear shorts again. Dresses. Skirts. Bathing suits. For about eight months of the year, you can barely spot them - even if I am bare-legged - because they fade into the pale milkiness of my skin. During the summer, they stand out silvery against my tanned skin but it doesn't bother me any more.

When the first stretch marks from pregnancy appeared on my stomach and sides, I collapsed into tears. I was only two weeks away from my due date. From the bottom of my bellybutton to the top of a pair of bikini-cut underpants, my tummy is soft, a little stretchy, and painted with a few dozen stretch marks. I hated them for a while too, but they don't bother me either.

I wouldn't have F without them.

Sure, I'd love to have been one of the women who gets off easy and doesn't get a single stretch mark throughout her pregnancy - or, if you're my cousin, through multiple pregnancies - but I wasn't. For the first year after F was born, I donned a one-piece bathing suit. But now I wear bikinis.

Today, at the beach, one of the few mums who spoke with me exclaimed that she'd never wear a bikini or show her "mummy tummy" in public the way I do. She said she was too self-conscious. In her retro-inspired one-piece, this girl could have been on the front of a magazine. But, with a sarong around her waist to cover her "dimply thighs" (her words, not mine), she barely had the confidence to take off the layers she'd previously worn.

I busted my ass off (literally) to lose weight and get in shape. My stomach may never be tight and firm like it used to be, but I'm strong and I'm healthy and I've got something better than six-pack abs to show for it.

Fat

Let me start by saying this: Reasonably, I know that I am not fat.

Actually, I am far from fat. But I have a lot of body hangups, as do most women I know. I often forget that I had a baby, and even though I slip into my size 0 pants every day, I often feel like I'm roughly the size of a rhinoceros. I try hard not to let the soft skin on my belly or the stretch marks that paint my stomach, hips and thighs get to me but every now and again it breaks me down and I stand in the mirror exclaiming words that I know aren't true, but perfectly describe how I feel:

I'm so fat today.

I promised Red I'd never ask him if I look fat - mostly because I'm secretly terrified he might say yes, but also because I think it would drive him crazy if he had to deal with my constant body hangups. More often than not, I keep the comments to  myself - mentally berating myself for my own perceived flaws - but every now and again, I've let it slip. Other than the fact that I'm beating myself up, it's never occurred to me that saying those words could have a profound impact on anyone.

Until I heard my beautiful, healthy, rambunctious three-year-old say "Mommy, am I fat?"

As heart-breaking as it is for me to look at beautiful men and women beat themselves up over the ridiculous idea of beauty that our society has created, it doesn't shine a light to the fact that my three-year-old could have possibly felt that he should ask that question.

It's the result of every time I've asked my mother, "Do I look fat in these jeans?"

It's the result of every time I've explained that I'm working out because "Mommy's fat".

It's the result of every time I've stood in the mirror and said "I'm fat" to myself, when I didn't think he was paying attention.

And it's not OK. 

I've become a part of the monster that I complain about. The monster that lets our children grow up feeling insecure about their bodies, highlights flaws and airbrushes over imperfections to create an idea of beauty that is impossible, unattainable and completely unnatural. It needs to stop.

Am I going to be able to completely eradicate my body hang-ups overnight? No. I'm not. It's going to take work, and I may never get over them. I may never get rid of that soft layer of post-baby fat that covers my belly. I'll wear my stretchmarks until the day I die. 

But I will be more conscious of what I say in front of those impressionable little ears, and that begins now.