I’m really trying to be an instrument of positivity in my mom group.
Women are so hard on themselves but more so, it seems, are mothers. We have love/hate relationships with our bodies.We love what they created, what they are capable of creating. We hate that our bodies are forever changed. We are heavier and wider and foreign to ourselves, streaked with stretch marks and scars and cellulite. All of these things, we are told, should make us feel less beautiful.
We doubt our ability to raise another human being. What if my child isn’t a genius? Or an olympic athlete? Or Van Gogh? The information on the best way to raise, teach, and punish our children is numerous and varied. The experts make us doubt our choices. The internet makes us doubt our choices. Other mothers make us doubt our choices.
So I tell the other women that they are beautiful. That they are capable.
I use my mouth. I use my written words. I use my body.
I reiterate that all they have to do is love their children. I tell them that I see how much they love and therefore, I see them thriving instead of failing. I show them. I show them by putting my fat ass in my swim suit and running around the splash pad. It apparently makes me some sort of Super Mom which I hurriedly shrug off and explain that I like my swimsuit. I want to be comfortable. I don’t hate my body. I support other moms choices and I listen. I commiserate. I offer what little advice I have. Even if they do things completely differently than I do.
I just want the other moms, the other women, my friends to know that they are worthy. They are powerful.