This was H's reaction, literally, with his fingers in his ears as I mentioned to him I thought #1 might need a training bra.
Some might see this reaction as unenlightened, as the modern father is supposed to be involved and comfortable with every stage of his daughter's development, but I gotta say, I understand it. I don't even want to think about this and I have to. Nobody really wants to think about their kid's sexual development. The only thing worse than imagining your parents having sex, is imagining your child doing it some day.*
But let's not get ahead of ourselves. I dread the idea of entering this phase of development, not because of my own discomfort, but because it means my daughter is quickly changing from a girl into a young woman and the body image bullies are lurking, ready to change her opinion of her body from powerful tool to disappointing, yet maleable, showpiece. It's time to go into war mode.
I have already been on the defensive. Once my eldest was around the age of three, tabloid magazines were banned from our house. No small task, given my mother in-law so graciously passed them down to me gratis, and celebrity gossip is such a guilty pleasure of mine. I'm sure I drove said mother in-law crazy, as I ran around her house during visits, ensuring the Us Weekly was on the bottom of the coffee table magazine pile and shoving the InStyle in the back of the bathroom magazine rack when I peed. I have , for years, been pushing Everyday with Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart Living in my girls' faces at the checkout line since they were old enough to be out of the grocery cart to distract them from the covers passing judgement on which celebrity is too fat or too thin. But I can not be with them every day, every moment, policing the images they are presented with, and now that my eldest is approaching the age when she may begin comparing her own body to the images around her, I am afraid.
And the clothes. Dear God, the clothes. It seems once girls stop being the size and shape of a loaf of bread, they can easily find mini-skirts, midriff tops and inappropriate bathing suits galore. This was not an issue when I was selecting all the clothes, but now the girls are taking an active interest in what they wear, and want to go shopping instead of just trying on whatever I picked up at Target. I have had to use the words "inappropriate" and "mature" so often, it might be easier for me to have flash cards printed to hold up like an Olympic judge (am I dating myself - do they even do that anymore?). One store in particular, Justice, draws the girls in like moths to a neon-hued, besequined flame. Here are examples of two items sold there:
Now where the hell is my ten year old wearing this? Out on the town with a pair of skinny jeans and heels carrying one of those wristlet bags all the young'uns use now? Btw, back in my day, our pants were loose enough we could fit a credit card, driver's license and some cash in our back pocket, making carrying a bag unnecessary. But then again, our generation had no cell phones and spent half the night out wandering from bar to bar looking for our current crush, so you have us there. Back to this shirt though. Over my dead, stinking, JCrew-wearing carcass is my child wearing this top before she is old enough to vote.
But then there's this top:
Cute, is it not? This is why I even set foot in this store. It's got some bling, and is long enough for her to follow Commandment #1 of Dressing in my house. "Thou shalt fully cover thy ass when wearing leggings". A rule made hard to enforce with those goddamn "jeggings". Made of stretchy jean material, they even have back pockets, but are as tight as slutty Olivia Newton-John's trousers at the end of Grease. "But they're jeans", I am told by a confused #1 when she attempts, innocently, to wear them with a t-shirt. Not when they're so tight I can see every contour of your kneecaps. But shirts like I can deal with. They satisfy her sense of style - bright, loud and preferably with a cute phrase or graphic done in sequins or rhinestones - without making her look like a hooker in training.
I am trying to desperately to teach her to dress functionally. That being able to run during recess is more important than looking cute. Like her mother, she is drawn to totally impractical clothes. My latest obsession below:
Where the hell am I wearing a Tory Burch boucle blazer? I'd be super pissed if Little Man got peanut butter on it, or it got snagged on the fence at the park. That's why I wear yoga pants and a fleece vest. When she picks out skirts and flats that will surely prevent her from killing it during a round of Knock Out come lunchtime, I tell her "Mommy wants a closet full of cocktail dresses, but I can't wear those to go grocery shopping, can I?", and she opts for the leggings and Converse. With top #2 above.
It's not just the clothes though. I worry about all of this body shit coming my girls' way and ask myself, am I good enough example? I sure try to be. I try very hard, because I have not always been the healthiest in this department. But, if recent surveys are to be believed, more than half of women are "disordered" in some way when it comes to food and body image. I wouldn't say I was clinical, but I "dabbled" with an eating disorder around the time of my wedding and lurking in the back of my head is the fear my daughters will figure out I'm a fraud. That all my "eat what you enjoy in moderation" and "exercise to be healthy" yammering will be for naught if they figure out one day I really do care about how big or small my butt is just like most women, despite my never having once complained about my own body in front of them, and they will stop believing anything I say. It's like being a closet smoker. Can I get away with it forever? So I guess I won't ever be letting them read this blog.
This passage from the novel One True Thing, is my dream. I want my daughters to be Ellen and have this conversation one day.
Jules: She sounds like the only half-way decent mother in the world. Has she ever told you you needed to lose weight?
Ellen: I'm a good weight.
Jules: You see, there you go. The fact that you can say you are a good weight is a measure of what a sane upbringing you had.
Please God, let it happen. Let my girls pass through the confidence-slaying fire of adolescence unscathed. Let them float through this self-improvement obsessed, comparison-driven modern world inside a bubble of healthy self-assurance. May their pants size not be a measure of their self-worth. May they laugh in the face of anyone who tells them how they should look, then proudly give them the finger.
And may they convince their father to buy me that blazer for my next birthday for all my efforts past, present and future.
Amen.
*Or having your parents talk to your child about their sexual development. Grandparents, you have been warned, there will be no Sixteen Candles moment. In fact, don't talk to me about it either.
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