I know there are so many people who would say not to, but I do weigh myself from time to time. I avoid weighing myself when I'm feeling unhealthy or lethargic, so I hardly ever do it. ;) Believe it or not, I am not a glutton for punishment. I weigh myself when I'm making good choices and I'm curious where that puts me on My Own Health Scale. (Or when the nurse makes me do it, which is my current predicament.) *Keeping tabs on ones weight should only be an indicator of overall health and well-being. That is absolutely not true for many, and for those I would beg, take the scale analogy out of this post and insert what you are able to use as an objective measurement of health.*
If my girls walk by the bathroom and see my feet on the scale they inevitably want to weigh themselves. First things first: I don't say ANYTHING about my weight being high or low. (That is for my doctor to decide and I only have to see her once a year!) And I try not to let those thoughts pervade my brain. I tell them I'm curious to see what my healthy number is that day. Then when they hop on the scale, we read the number together and I say, “Wow! Look how strong you are!” I have to be careful with my girls. They are so slight a strong wind could blow them away. I have to watch what I say about that. In a skinny-obsessed culture, it is far too easy to be overly positive about being naturally thin--especially when they’re “just kids.” What they hear now, what they observe now forms the grid through which they will view their future world, their future selves. They don't need to hear, "Oh! You're so skinny!" or, "You'll never have a weight problem--look how tiny you are!" or, worse yet, "I wish I had your DNA."
They need to know they are strong and healthy. They need to remember that when their bodies are well fed, well rested, and playing hard they are the lucky ones. Some bodies don't work the way they are meant to. Some mouths never get the food they need. Somebody every second is hurting because their body cannot thrive. Their lips long so much for the simple blessing of eating, nourishing, and flourishing that they cannot curve into a smile. My girls need to know what a gift their body is. To me and to them.
You'd think it would be the other way around, but the best thing that ever happened to my own body image was having kids. Through the inflation and deflation of my own body for the sake of theirs, I have learned to cherish this marked shell. I learned as the need arose to teach them. I realized that the self-battering I have dealt myself since I was a child is not what I want to pass on to my girls. I want to give them the very best chance to start this thing out on the right foot. But in order to teach them how to be thankful for their bodies I first have to be thankful for mine. Do what I say, not as I do? We all know that doesn't work. If I want them to live with the freedom of loving their bodies, I have to love my own. Possibly even more critical than the words I say to them are the words they hear me saying to myself. They do not need to hear me say things like, "I shouldn't eat that--I'm already so bloated." or, "I feel fat." or, "I'm gaining so much weight." Even if I'm saying those things to other adults and not directly to them, they hear me. They hear everything I say. (Homework and chore time not a good reference point. They're PRETENDING not to hear the words that are coming out of my mouth! Crazy making.)
My body is a gift. It is a gift to my kids because it grew and fed them, and now it nurtures them. It is a gift to my husband because well, frankly we all know why! It is a gift to my friends because it can do the work of loving them. It is a gift to myself because--holy crap, there are so many reasons! All of the above and then some! It lets me go to the gym for solitude; it lets me hike with my hooligans; it lets me bake and create; it lets me rest. Ah, sweet rest. My favorite part.
Yes, it's given me some rough seasons. It has been violated and scarred and remembers every detail. My brain is bent toward depression and migraines, which brings this Mama Train to a screeching halt. For whatever reason, it didn't carry our fourth baby past the first trimester. It completely refused to cooperate with life while Sweet Pea grew to her astounding 10 lbs. 9 oz. And yes, more to our starting point, it jumps at every opportunity to swell up in the places I always examined *past tense* with the greatest scrutiny because they didn't look at all like the girls in Seventeen. (Really? Seventeen every single month, but National Geographic Kids has to charge 50% more for only 10 issues? Our culture is so opposite of what I'd hoped.) What I'm getting at is, when I say my body is a gift, I'm not saying it is without troubles. But it works. It lets me do the work. It gets fed. It sleeps safely. It breathes. It is a gift.
So when my girls jump on the scale, excited to see their growing number I rejoice with them. And when I sheepishly step on the scale at my midwife's office, I remind myself to again rejoice. And next March when I have to face digits at my postpartum visit, I will set a reminder to read this post first. I will remember that my body is amazing. Even if it goes kaput on me...at this point? Look what it has already given me!
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