I don't want my daughter to see my (immensely huge) insecurities, at least not for awhile. I want to be her superhero. I also don't want to impose them on her. Ever. I want her to be confident, to know that she's beautiful, both inside and out. I don't want her to think that she needs to wear makeup, but I want her to have the confidence to do it if she wants when the time comes. I want her to take pride in her body and to honor it as the temple that it is. I want her to look at other people and love them, no matter what they look like.
So when she was putting on some pants and I told her that she had my thighs, I caught my breath. I wasn't able to stop the words as they spilled out of my mouth. The pants fit her fine everywhere but in her thighs, a problem that I've been plagued with for as long as I can remember. Thin (for me) or heavy, I've always carried extra weight in my thighs and struggled to find pants that fit right.
Those beautiful brown eyes looked at me and asked what I'd said. I told her that she had her mommy's thighs. I took a deep breath and swallowed the words that were on the tip of my tongue, cursing those thighs, and instead supplied her with a word that I hoped wouldn't sound too much like a lie. Strong. Those thighs are strong. They help us run fast. They help us lift things. They're strong, baby. We are strong.
Dance of the Ladybugs
3 hours ago