Raising Body Positive Kids
“Some wiggle and they jiggle and some do not, and I like whatever kind of belly that you got!” My three-year-old gleefully points to both his belly and mine before hopping off (quite literally, on one foot) to the next room. I am left sitting alone and marveling. “How cool is that?” I think, my eyes welling up in my typical unhinged, immediate fashion. “He’s already learning that all kinds of bellies are awesome.” (Thanks to Mother Moon and their beautiful belly song.) I put my hands to my own stomach and pause to think about all the years spent knee-deep in self-loathing behaviors directed towards that particular body part.
Later, we are winding down before bed. I am giving him and his sister a bath. It’s one of those idyllic child scenes, all pink cheeks and bubbles on the tips of noses. My son points to the strawberry hemangioma on my daughter and says “Goldie’s berry birth mark!” My daughter smiles and points at it too. “Birf mar!” She says gleefully. I am again taken aback by the enormity of just how beautiful that is- he sees a large different-colored raised patch on her skin and doesn’t seem to think much more than “hey! That’s that cool berry-colored ‘birf mar’!” (Pausing to give you a moment to reflect on just how cute that mispronunciation is. Damn I love their little ways of speaking. Anddddd cue the tears again.)
The truth is, my days are filled to the brim with moments like these-moments where I am struck by their absolute lack of body shame, or fear of food. I could paint you scene after scene – my one-year-old daughter toddling by, belly out in that distinct one-year old way- my three-year-old son happily chanting “Wash. That. Scrotum!” (for some reason always said in the same cadence as “Wheel. Of. Fortune”)- both of them asking for more at meals with abandon. Scenes where they unabashedly embrace their bodies and food without a second thought-scenes that leave me in a state that can only be described as ¾ marvel, ¼ panic about when it will all shift.
I think about when that moment will be- the moment when someone or some system will give them the message that their bodies are not enough- that they are something to be controlled, manipulated, or tamed into submission- and my breath catches in my throat with fear.
Part of this is because of my own mental health history, I know this. But part of it is simply a realistic response to our messed-up world and society. I fear their body trust being snatched from them because I know this is something that all too easily happens to many-if not most- of us.
What helps me quell this fear? Well, I try to doggedly remind myself that my struggles do not have to be theirs. I try to lean into the idea that I have been relentlessly working on my relationship with my body and food for well over a decade now- in the hopes of providing them with a foundation that is sturdy and generally positive. Notice the wording there- that was intentional. Sturdy, meaning able to withstand the storms, and generally positive- meaning I do not ask perfection of them, nor do I ask it of myself. (Too often I find that these motherhood messages gleam with judgment and sinister undertones that collude with the darker voices that already reside within me- “Psssst: It’s all on you. So, you better not screw them up. But also, you probably already have. What a shame.” And I’ll be damned if I add to this cacophony of judgmental undertones.)
Other things I do?
-I try to be intentional about sending the message that food isn’t something to be feared. I try to let them know verbally and nonverbally that their appetites will never be scary to us, and that their bodies will never be something that we try to control.
-I don’t talk negatively about my body or any one else’s. Read that again. Because it seems small, but can you imagine growing up without hearing negative body comments from family members? Imagine the safety that it would have created for you.
-I help them label their body parts with the correct medical terms. I try to use the word vagina as freely as I would their names. I try to cheerfully and factually state “time to wash your scrotum” in a similar way that I would tell him it’s time to wash his feet. I’m a little embarrassed to say that this took practice. I felt vaguely uncomfy the first time I said the medical names for some of these body parts. But then it dawned on me: “Oh hell. If I can’t show them that their body parts are all allowed, ok, and not ‘too dirty’ to speak of, how will they have a shot at being able to grow up feeling this way?”
-I read them books that celebrate all bodies. I read them books about being an anti racist. I read them books that celebrate consent.
-I try to teach them not to comment on other people’s bodies- and I also simultaneously try to install the message that there is nothing wrong with being in a larger body, and that fat is not a bad word. In fact, all bodies are good bodies.
-I do not and will never criticize their appearance. And I try to steer clear of too many appearance-based compliments. If I do tell them how cute or beautiful they are, I tend to add in “and what’s REALLY important is how smart you are/how much you stick with things/how funny you are!”
-I try my best to verbally and non-verbally convey the message that they will be celebrated- not simply tolerated- celebrated for whoever they are- whatever gender, whatever processing style, whatever orientation, whatever body type- we will celebrate them.
I’ll say it again- I can’t say it enough it seems- I am not perfect with this process, and do not demand perfection of myself. But I try. There is intention behind my actions. I long for body and food peace for them, and so there is energy behind my actions in this arena. And that energy is enough. Your energy will be enough too, friend. We are messy, imperfect humans raising messy, imperfect humans. We are navigating their relationships with their bodies, their relationship to our bodies, and our relationships to our own bodies- it’s a lot! And you do not have to be “fully healed” from your own stuff to do this. Remind yourself of this when you fall down, and pat yourself on the back for loving them with such ferocity that you continue to try to break the cycle of body loathing. Such bravery and loud love right there.
In mama camaraderie,
Colleen
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