Pretty Little Girl

Almost every night before going to sleep I lie in my bed and cuddle up next to my iPhone to Facebook creep*. It’s a bad habit and one clearly not conducive to slumber but so it is. Last night the last thing I saw before calling it a night was the following video, posted by an old friend from university.

When Gaia was a wee one, about 3 months old, a mama-friend and I discussed the ramifications of constantly praising our “pretty” babies. We discussed gender politics. We discussed theories in education. We discussed our own hopes and fears. I confessed I found myself hastily adding “and smart” to the tail end of every “you’re pretty” even in the days when Gaia could barely hold her head up. I later found I did this even more in the days when she was making choices like eating out of the garbage can and running head first into the walls. My mama-friend confessed to throwing in a “and hard working” lest her babe be giving the impression smarts alone were enough. God forbid our infants rest on their laurels.

Two baby girls lounging lazily on the floor – “You’re pretty... and smart... and hard working.” Their twinkly baby gazes gave little indication that the message was getting through.

Since Gaia was born there’s a whole portion of my brain that’s dedicated to raising a teenager. I fear it in a way I never expected and one that at times consumes me. Somehow I grew up with a healthy dose of self esteem. I’d always been a “pretty little girl” all big eyes and dark lashes. My big teeth turned into a perfect smile without the rite-of-passage that is braces. I hit puberty hard, and early, but even that only slowed me for a second when in the back of a car while I pretended to sleep my parents talked about the relief they felt that their “pretty little girl” had a new layer of fat to protect her from dangers I didn’t fully understand in grade five.

“Thank God she’s a little bit chubby because with that face we might have been in for trouble.” I stored it away in a place I don’t often visit.

I’ve always dressed and acted how I wanted. Always got what I wanted, in school, at work, in life, with men. When I look in the mirror I see so much more then my reflection. How could I waste time on my muffin top when it's so hard to see among what I’ve accomplished and what more I have to conquer? The real question then, is how did that happen? I am the minority among my friends who use their reflection as an excuse to forgo the life they long for, who poke and pinch and prod and one who did such damage to her body with years of grasping at straws to keep those bones that jutted from her hips that she struggles, nearly ten years after recovery, with the most basic of bodily functions. Nagging me constantly is the story that has burrowed into my brain about one friend who refused to have her picture taken for years because she couldn’t stand her own visage. She wasn’t even ten years old. Growing up my house was filled with fad diets and low-fat recipe books and Weight Watchers magnets and still, I have never defined myself on being “pretty”. When a car accident in 2004 left half my face scarred and broken after countless stitches that closed the gaping hole in my forehead and ran down my cheek I used the settlement money to pay debt and buy a laptop. The thought of plastic surgery receded with the reality of what the money could do. The scars, which are so faded already they’re almost invisible remind me pretty isn’t everything and that life doesn’t stop when pretty is compromised. I love them. I don’t want Gaia to define herself on being “pretty” and still I watch her play and can’t stop myself from scooping her up and whispering in her ear that I know... I KNOW... she is the most beautiful little girl I have ever seen.

One little girl laughing at the playground – “You’re SO BEAUTIFUL. No one. NO ONE is as beautiful as you.” She smiles and hands me a fistful of sand.

Of course what I really mean is that no one has her personality or the way she twists her face into a myriad of expressions that make her a little baby pantomime. The way she stubbornly problem solves, refuses help, runs ahead to assert her independence only to cautiously wait for me to catch up and tickle her round Buddha belly. When I say she’s beautiful I mean that the very inside of her emits such a stunning light that sometimes I am blinded in wonder of her... all of her. That she is the very best parts of me and her father and that every time I see her she helps me remember everything that’s good in the world. That the parts of her that are hers alone and that shock me every day with how much of her own person she already is are the most amazing parts of the most amazing human being I have ever met. And yet, I praise her with words like “pretty” and think she’ll catch the subtext.

I’m nowhere closer to knowing how to raise her to be who I hope she’ll be. She’s my “pretty little girl” all big eyes and dark lashes. My “pretty little girl” with wild hair and a dirty face with runny nose and sticky hands and skinned, chubby knees. Pretty isn’t a disease, but pretty isn’t everything.

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* For those of you not familiar with this terminology please see here. I feel I’ve raised it to an art form.

Baby Weight? (An Update)

On Saturday I posted this.

A few hours later I got an email from my official Mommy Friend enthusiastically outlining an idea she had for losing her own "baby weight" and suggesting I get onboard so we could support each other. I was going to write about it today but she beat me to the punch. Check it out here.

While my meals aren't becoming uber-healthy I am considering portion control. So far I have resisted the temptation to snack on multiple occasions. Eating a bag of Doritos at 8:00am seems less cute when I have to take a picture of it and send it out for public scrutiny. I know, I know. My Mommy Friend isn't exactly the public en mass and would never judge but still, she's holding me accountable for my choices. Antoher good thing about this new experiment? Last night at 11:00pm I was exhausted and moody and so ready to eat icing straight from the jar but I didn't. Why? I'd already emailed out my food dairy signaling the end of my daily munching of course.

Anyway, I'll let you know how it goes.

Baby Weight?

I can’t remember a time when I wore a single digit size. In fact, part of me suspects I was born a size ten and the numbers have been slowly climbing since then. I know why I gain weight. I have a passionate love affair with good food. I blame it on my father who introduced me to a world of culinary delights as a child. Plus I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like. When I started university in 2001 I thought I was gigantic. Looking back I was actually on the healthier side of average. My jeans were a comfortable size ten which is nothing to scoff at for a girl with hips like mine. By the time I completed my six-year-degree and finally graduated (finally) I was going through a gymnastics routine every morning to get my size sixteen jeans to do up. I refused to bite the bullet and buy a size up. At size sixteen I could still shop at The GAP, if I gave in and went to a ‘big girl store’ I was afraid it’d be a slippery slope to Mom-Jeans and muumuus. I knew the fact my jeans left permanent impressions in my belly was a little ridiculous, I just pretended not to care. I left university sixty pounds heavier then I’d arrived and I’d finally pushed the scale over two hundred pounds. Things were getting excessive.

Leaving for university in 2001

Leaving for ships in 2007

When I came home from my first contract on ships I was inextricably fifteen pounds lighter. I chalked it up to a strict diet of Corona and controversy. Sustenance was placed on the backburner as I became consumed with living a life of excess and melodrama. Somehow I managed to keep the weight off during my two months of vacation. Even more shocking was the additional thirty pounds I lost during my next contract. Having gotten a promotion, it wasn’t a beer and drama diet that did it this time, it was sixteen-hour workdays and repeatedly jogging up ten flights of stairs to get from my cabin to Adventure Ocean because I’MJUSTTOOBUSYTOWAITFORTHEELEVATOR. Neither strategy was the healthiest but I felt good. I was still fifteen pounds away from where I’d been completely healthy and thirty pounds from my ultimate goal, but I took pride in my size twelve jeans. In my last months on the ship I started eating well (not just eating very little) and Jose and I went to the gym almost every day. I even found myself turning away dessert (my favourite part of any meal). I had big plans.

A few weeks after signing off of The Navigator of the Seas - Almost 3 Weeks Pregnant (who knew?)

Then I got pregnant. Determined not to succumb to the “I’m pregnant so I can eat what I want” trap I tried my best to stay on the healthy eating bandwagon. Sweets were my major vice, but I rationalised that eating an entire sheet cake in one sitting was probably not going to kill me. Right? I did everything I could to stay active. I did yoga three times a week and went on walks and never let the pregnancy be an excuse at my often active job. I felt proud at my six month check up when I’d only gained seven pounds. My ultrasound showed the baby was just the right size and developing perfectly. I decided all my best efforts must mean that I was losing weight while my fetus took all the nutrients. This suited me just fine.

Then I went to Peru. To this day I’m not entirely sure how it happened. It might have been the Inca Kola, the cookies or the ice cream bars I consumed in bed every day pre and post-nap. Or maybe it was the fries I had with every meal? Regardless when I got back to Canada and back to my doctor for my seven month check up I had gained a whooping ten pounds. “Okay. No big Deal.” I thought. “Seventeen pounds is nothing during pregnancy.” And it wasn’t.

Two days before Gaia was born.

Then I gave up. By the time I hit seven and a half months I was so sick of being pregnant I ate whatever I wanted, mainly to make myself feel better. I started sleeping through yoga and gave up on walks and I even took the elevator up one floor at work more than once. By the time Gaia was born I had gained a total of almost thirty pounds. I still weighed less then when I’d graduated university but just barely. I hadn’t expected miracles but when I weighed myself for the first time post-pregnancy I was down over fifteen pounds. “At this rate,” I thought “I’ll be back into my old jeans in no time.” Sigh. Not only have I not lost a single additional pound since then, I’ve actually gained five more. Not to mention the fact that my belly, which even at my heaviest had been reasonably flat, is now sad and droopy. Distantly reminded of squishing a sleeping bag into it’s too-small casing every time I tried to get into my jeans I began living in yoga pants.

Last night I went to dinner with I friend. We were chatting when I looked down and realised I was casually rubbing my belly. Even more shocking was that it appeared to be about the same size it had been at around the five-month mark of my pregnancy. Sure I haven’t been watching what I eat. The aforementioned meal had a caloric content I don’t dare think about. Still, I just had a baby right? Ummm... sort of. The’ just’ in ‘just had a baby’ is getting to be a bit of a stretch and somehow I don’t think the excuse holds much weight anymore. It’s gotten to the point that continuing to refer to my extra chub as “baby weight” is laughable. Instead of blaming the baby, perhaps I should face facts. I think the real culprit might be the gigantic cookie and frappacino I had for breakfast this morning. Or maybe it was the quesadilla oozing delicious cheese I just snacked on. Hmmm. It’s true that the moments I actually find myself able to cook are rare. Also true is the lack of opportunities to go to the gym. Still, I know I could be taking better care of myself. I’m choosing not to.

Weight is such a sensitive topic, one I’m especially aware of now that I have a daughter. The last thing I want is for my struggles with weight to have any impact of Gaia’s view of her own body. Still, she deserves a healthy mother. My husband deserves a confident wife. Hell, I deserve to feel what it’s like to zip up my pre-baby jeans again. I’m not planning on getting obsessive or anything but it seems clear that now that I’ve found myself in yoga pants on a Friday night, rubbing my belly while I casually eye the cheesecake at the table beside me I’m sliding down the aforementioned slope that ends in Mom-Jeans and muumuus. It may seem vain, but there’s no way I’m I going to nab MILF status if I keep wandering down that slope. And you can deny it all you want but don’t pretend you don’t want to be a MILF too.