Body Image and Baby Girls

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!

Stepping Out: The First Step is Always the Hardest

In most states and in most situations, homeschoolers enjoy a vast array of magnificent freedoms.  I will get to all my favorites in future posts, but today I'll talk about the Big One.
The Institution.
When homeschooling one rarely has to deal with the institution.  An institution as elaborate and important as the educational system simply has to have a billion safe-guards, procedures, and rules to follow.  And lots of paperwork.  This can be a huge headache, but one cannot expect a nation of children to be educated for free without a complicated, ever evolving beast of a structure.  Aside from each state's accountability requirements, homeschoolers don't have to deal with that.  They are a nation of one.  One family, one set of children, one ultimate vision of education--like really straight-laced outlaws.  One for all, and all for one!!
When we decided to put the kids in school, I had to face that beast for the first time and I was terrified!
If you're really lucky you may live in a town that runs like a well oiled machine.  Your town employees may be paid wonderful wages and given great benefits.  Or you may live in a town where some of your officials are strapped and burnt out and under-appreciated.  Let's go with scenario two.  Little, old, terrified you walks up to the great fortress of school admin offices to register your precious, perfect, delicate children for school.  Your face is screaming, I've never done this! What do I do? Please help me? Hug me, please!  But your face is met with the face of utter indifference and stone-cold boredom.  Not all the faces there are like that, just the one who is supposed to be helping you.  So you go back and forth trying to get all the paper work right.  You drive all over tarnation to get those blasted papers.  You finally have your ducks in a row and bring them to the office.  The office is closed.  It is early afternoon.  You keep calling, keep trying for days never quite getting the timing right.  You even talk directly to the superintendent when he accidentally answers the phone, and he can't answer your questions.  He tells you to call back tomorrow when his secretary is in. So you officially freak out.  You call your husband sobbing, your best friends sobbing, inviting them all to join your elaborate freak out party.  Then when the tears are dried and the mind stops racing, the blood starts boiling.  Oh yes, you get very angry.  You are now on the war path, which is a joke because the only time you are confrontational is when you're level-headed and calm and it is actually necessary.  In this case, it is not.  You're just freaking out because you are terrified and the process is laborious.  In the end your husband brings his charm and mystical, magical people skills to the office--it's open, she's there!!--and everything gets done with smiles and grace in less than ten minutes.  They give your kids their summer reading books and send you on your way with an upbeat 'good luck!'
That was honestly the hardest part of the entire process of starting public school.  Maybe it's because this was the first, real step into public school and the final step out of homeschool.  You could say I was a bit emotional about it.
From that point on, we were able to proceed in a much more objective manner.  I took the kids to see their school.  Amazingly, the teachers and staff don't LIVE at the school year round to answer your questions and tell you everything is going to be alright and your children are just perfect.  So by "see their school" I mean we looked at the building and the playground.  We totally peaked in the windows, and I played up all the fun set-ups in each classroom.  And I may or may not have read the elementary school handbook cover to cover....twice.  The kids were exceedingly excited.  This was a new adventure, and we only used positive, encouraging words to introduce and process the idea.  (I also stopped saying negative things about institutional schools years ago--for such a time as this.  Also it's not nice to harp on the negative in general.)
I did call the school the very first day they opened their doors.  It may or may not have been precisely one minute after they opened.  The woman who answered the phone was so warm, so inviting.  Blow me over!  Mrs. T.  She's like my new favorite person of all time.  She set up a time for us to meet with the principal.  When we walked in the doors she welcomed us with a greeting that could turn even Vladimir Putin's frown upside down.  We met the principal and he showed us everything in the school.  The kids got to see their classrooms, and we even ran into a couple of their teachers.  The first day of school would have been the first we'd meet them if not for this encounter.  We left the school that day feeling very good about our decision.
I guess you could say the lesson I learned from this first experience is one that applies to most life steps.  Some things will be exceedingly difficult.  Some days you'll totally lose it.  But then it all comes back around, and some things will be incredibly fun and interesting.  On those days, one must be sure to remember that what one thought would be horrible and impossible turned out to be anything but.

How Dare You

http://www.theblaze.com/contributions/heres-what-you-can-do-about-the-persecution-of-christians-stop-being-a-lazy-coward/

Several days ago there was this article, which I actually took the time to read.  I recognized the author's name from something I had appreciated in the past.  I ignore a lot of stuff online, because honestly there's just too much and little of it is worth the time.
But I kept reading, because I thought I knew the guy.  Or maybe I at least knew his angle.
As I kept reading I gradually, nostalgically felt the only thing on earth I could do to be a "true Christian" is go and die.
Literally.
Go somewhere other than here, immediately, and get beheaded.  THEN I'd be worthy of my God's love.

Thankfully, I have a safe space in which to think and I remember--I'm already dying. I am living and breathing and trying really hard to love the people in my immediate vicinity.  Love, people.  Love!  But I'm dying.  I am laboring and loving and working, but the days are numbered and the body grows weaker and the mind more befuddled.  We are all dying.  Sorry.  But we are.

I believe with my whole heart that there is a heck of a lot to life and love about which we know nothing.  I also believe that being an honest, healthy person in this world is excruciating.  Being married to another person in this world is sometimes impossible.  Parenting small human beings to be, as we all hope, more free and joyful and committed than we are is physically painful.  My heart aches and breaks every single moment of every single day for my people.  Chances are if you're actually reading this, you're one of them.

In no way do I want to discount the call and drive of those who go to the most dangerous parts of the world to live out their love.  That is nowhere near the subject I'm talking about.  Many of us have family members or friends in those dangerous places, and not only this week's news, but all of recorded history makes us stop in our tracks and pray.  We beg and plead for their safety.  Their lives do not make me think I'm not worthy of love, which is exactly what Matt Walsh is saying with his "lazy coward" bit.  My conversations with these beautifully-footed ones *scripture reference* lift me way, way up there into the heavenly realms.  Their lives encourage and spur me on to keep loving, keep breathing, keep giving it all up, keep working.  Keep trying, girl!  Keep trying!

The cancerous problem I'm furious about right now is legalism.  All I heard in Matt Walsh's words was legalism and condemnation.  (Are the two different in any way?)

What good is this condemnation?
What the heck does legalism do?
Yes, Human Beings are being killed in Libya and Ethiopia and all over the world for being christian, female, young, old, defenseless, or otherwise.   They always have been, and always will be.  Will we honor those lives or will we break one another down because it's just all too much to internalize?  Newsflash: this gorgeous world is broken in a bad way.  Why do you then have to tell me I'm a lazy coward?  Because I'm not being gunned down, raped, or beheaded?  Do your words in any way validate their painful sacrifice?  Are your words doing any good for those of us who actually have enough internet connection to read your article?  Outside of trying to single-handedly insight God's Great Wrath on all your readers, what are you after?  Restitution for your own feelings of disappointment and guilt?

The world is broken, but there are innumerable souls striving to become whole and free in the face of fear and fracture.  Persecution takes many forms.  It could be the barrel of a gun or a swinging sword.  It could also be cancer, lupus, depression, schizophrenia, or a really mean chic in 6th grade.  It could be friends who abandon another because the whole faith thing changes things too much.

Every day I live I feel like I'm dying the death of persecution.  I am hard-pressed.

"8We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. 9We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed."  2 Corinthians 4:8-9 

Honestly, the day's end comes and I have nothing left. I hope the Husband can get the Children to bed without too much from me.  I give everything I possibly can to the five souls in this house.  If there is any small remnant left I give that to my friends.  (Oh, my poor starving friends!)  And in all the crevasses between I give to my neighbors and community.  Every tiny ounce of energy, food, money, beauty--any possible resource is given OUT.

But I'm a lazy coward?  Because I have a safe home and groceries, and my government or some rebel group isn't trying to kill me?

Guess what.  Someone or something is out there trying to kill all of us.  It is the dreadful, broken part of this world.  It is sneaky and sly and uses our own voices to fool us into dying.  I fight every day to not die that soul death or be a part of that sinister voice. I fight, and I know I'm not the only one.  My life has been about a lot of love and comfort as well as hardship, abuse, and disrespect.  I know there are millions of other comfortable Americans who have had lives similar to mine.  Life has been hard, but not "hard enough."  Some of us were even raised to stive for persecution from infancy.  So, really. What voice do we have?  We're alive, relatively comfortable, and nobody is literally trying to kill us.  We must be lazy cowards.

How dare you, legalistic finger-pointers.  How dare you tell me I am a lazy coward not worth my Father's time.

I am freaking brave.  It is only because of him and we both know it.  So I will continue to live out the rest of these fleeting days dying to the best of my ability.  And per usual, I will focus mainly on loving people up into the heavenly realms of faith, hope, and love.  But mostly love.