I thought I would have sons. Two sweet daughters later, and one dear girl dog, my only son is a German Shepherd with hypothyroidism and a predilection for poo-eating. God love him.
I am sure I would have been a champ with boys. But I am finding surprising grace in being the mother of XX-chromosomed humans.
Sophie sticks her head into the shower to talk to me, to ask me about puberty, why I’m shaving my legs, how babies get into their mommies’ tummies. Hattie Belle watches while I reach for a tampon, yelling delightedly, “EWWWW, THAT’S WEEEEIRD, MOMMY!”
There are no locks on bathroom or bedroom doors. We wander around in various states of undress. I brush my teeth in the buff while a child sits behind me on the toilet, singing to my ass. We discuss all sorts of life issues, sans clothing. Daughters.
I remember taking a shower with my mom once when I was a child—her teaching me how to shower, my being surprised at what a woman’s body looked like. But I don’t remember seeing her naked, not often. By late grade school, we changed behind locked doors. It wasn’t until my own daughters were born that I no longer cared if my mother saw my body. It had ceased to be fully mine with childbirth, lactating. I was able to view it with a humor and a nonchalance that I never could have imagined before having my own daughters. Now Mom and I change in front of each other in bathrooms, in department store changing rooms—laughing and groaning at the changes that come with time, at the Polish genes making themselves known. Cellulite. Veins. Southerly breasts. C’est la vie.
I tell my girls that what they are seeing, when they look at me as I am, is a real woman. I answer questions. I show them where their little fists and heels pressed against the skin of my belly when they were inside me. I explain nipples, birthmarks. We talk about how their bodies will change, how they are likely to have adult bodies that resemble mine in many ways. I shake my booty. They shake theirs. It is absurd. We are absurd. We are lovely.
I never feel more at home in my own skin as I do with them. What a surprise. Didn’t see that coming. I hope so much they will take some of this time with them, tuck it away in some protected place. I hope so much that the remembrance of my skin (and my comfort in it, in their presence) will help them grow to be comfortable in theirs.
I’m curious: What do you remember of your mother’s body, from when you were a child? How has your own body image evolved (or devolved), since having children? Or from the choice not to have children? Fellas, how does body image work with you? Curious, curious.
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