The ‘F’ Word

My oldest daughter Claire is 9 — not quite a tween but no longer a young child. Most days I look at her and I scarcely recall the red-cheeked, round-faced infant that she once was. Everything is bigger now — from the height of her boots, to the library books she reads while perched in her loft bed each night, to the emotions that can encompass a single afternoon. In the last year, I’ve noticed her thin, childish frame starting to vanish and slowly fill out, ready for yet another growth spurt that will come upon us with a Jack-in-the-Box kind of intensity and surprise. I’ve set aside suddenly too-small pants that were worn only half the year, folded them in Rubbermaids for her younger sisters, then set out to the store to buy new ones.

Often she seems so big, I almost forget that she’s still little. Sometimes, in my better parenting moments, when she’s frustrated or upset, instead of lecturing her, I open my arms and motion for her to sit with me. I’m thankful that she doesn’t yet hesitate at this sort of invitation. She usually seems relieved — like, “Oh, Mommy gets it. I just need a hug.” She shuffles over to me, then plops down and puts her head in my lap. This was the case a couple months ago, and when I was stroking her hair, she started talking about how she and some friends from school had been practicing flips on the monkey bars. She seemed discouraged that they were better than her. “They’re all so fit,” she said. “I’m fat.” She took her fingers to her stomach, pinching together a fold of skin. I think my heart stopped for a few seconds. I had never heard that word come from her mouth before.

It’s one many females spend wrestling with for much of their lives. Even if I don’t always believe it myself (I’m getting there), I want to make sure their worth is found in who they are, not what they look like.

Even my 1st graders, it turns out, are already aware that some sort of pecking order exists, and that looks might have something to do with it. This is a conversation from bedtime tonight:

Liza: Raina is moving away. That means there are only two cool kids left – Eva and Charlotte.
Me: What makes someone cool?
Noelle: Oh, if you’re cool, then people say your name a lot.
Liza: Yeah, Eva’s really pretty. And Charlotte is like a fashion star.

Of course, in this instance and in the “F” word moment with Claire, I told them they were beautiful. That they were the coolest kids I knew. I hope somehow in this parenting journey, in the midst of the never-ending pressure to fit in, my kids will come to understand that beauty is about offering the best of yourself to the world. To be imperfect and to show up anyway, and to be kind (sometimes mostly to ourselves).

I had a surprisingly real and honest conversation with a coworker today, someone I just met a few weeks ago. She was telling me about how she truly believes all the hard things she’s gone through have, in retrospect, better prepared her for other things in life. Her mother died three years ago, and she was the one to look after her. That experience, she said, has helped her better care for some elderly neighbors, who have become good friends.

“If you had told me 10 years ago that I would be changing a 92-year-old’s Depends, I would never have believed it. But, you know what? It’s no big deal. We just laughed about it.”

That’s beauty. The kind I hope my daughters will learn to understand.