It’s election season here in my little neighborhood city.
Someone new has thrown his hat in the mayoral race.
His signs popped up all over the place this week.
And, dude, I got so pumped when I saw them.
I was all like, Oh my God, our new mayor is totally gonna kick someone’s ass!
So. I did some digging and, turns out, it’s not that Steven.
It’s this one.
Dammit.
A few months ago, I dished about some of the things I don’t like about my body. Things I obsess over. It was easy to write and, if anything, I had a hard time narrowing down the list.
After reading my rant, my sister-in-law suggested I do a follow-up consisting of things I do like about my body. I said maybe, while quietly thinking that there was no way in hell.
But, despite brushing the idea off initially, it stayed in the back of my head. I knew it was a good idea, in theory. I also knew it was a hard one.
Hard because we aren’t used to seeing the positive things in ourselves. And, even when we can, it doesn’t feel natural to say them out loud. It feels a little scary. And a lot vain.
We are so accustomed to putting ourselves down and commiserating with one another about our fat asses and bad skin, that we seldom do the opposite and lift ourselves up.
There is something very sad about that.
So, here is the challenge.
Take a moment and acknowledge at least one thing that you do like about yourself.
I challenged myself and came up with two.
I like my eyes. I like them because their color is slightly unique . I like them because so many people in my family have the very same shade of hazel. And now, so does my son. They make me feel like a part of something. Also, they never make me look fat.
I like my legs. I’ve always had calf muscles that make me proud. When I was a kid, I used to love it that they were bigger than most of the boy’s. And, while the thighs they are connected to fluctuate often, they are healthy and strong. They take me places.
Alright, so that wasn’t so bad.
Will you join me?
Can you look at yourself and see something that makes you smile? Something you wouldn’t want to change? Something you embrace?
Good.
Now, can you say it out loud?
My kid loves Bob Dylan because he has no choice.
He especially loves the “animal song” and can’t get enough.
We’ve listened to it around 2 million times in the past three months. Give or take.
The video is shaky because I was, um, driving, and keeping my eyes on the road.
But, I just couldn’t pass up getting this on the record.
Don’t try this at home kids.
Also, notice how he yells at me towards the end, because he wants the window down. This is why we call him Kim Jong-il for short.
And now, I present to you, L does Dylan.
I’ll never forget the first time I realized I had a bump on my nose. I was in elementary school. I hadn’t noticed my profile and, up until then, hadn’t cared about my looks. Or what people thought about them, anyway.
I miss those days.
I was playing with my mom’s makeup in the bathroom with one of my friends, when she made some sort of reference to the bump on my nose. I gasped, “What are you talking about? I’m looking in the mirror now, it’s not big or bumpy.”
She turned my face slowly away from the mirror and I went cross-eyed trying to get a glimpse of my profile.
And there it was.
The bump.
That moment stayed with me for a very long time. It completely changed the way I perceived myself.
I had a big nose and I hated it.
Now, at 33 years old, I’ve learned to love my nose. The same nose that I used to despise. It’s me and I would never change it.
But, this isn’t about my nose, its about another part of my body I used to obsess over. One I did something about. And by something I mean plastic surgery.
My enormous boobs.
I hit puberty early and big in the breast department. There is nothing like having boobs three times the size of everyone else to make you feel even more insecure in an already unsure time in your life.
I had nicknames. I was teased. People had perceptions of who I was solely based on the size of my rack. I got a lot of attention, but not the kind I wanted.
When I graduated from high school my mother granted me the only thing I’d ever really wished for.
A breast reduction.
That was fourteen years ago and I’ve never had one single moment of regret. It was something I knew I had to do to feel like the me that I already felt like on the inside.
So, if you are thinking about plastic surgery, here is my extremely-unprofessional-I-am-so-not-a-doctor advice.
Don’t pull a Heidi Montag. And by this I mean don’t get something done just so you can look exactly like Barbie. Keep what makes you different, because that is what makes you beautiful. No, you will never look like Megan Fox, I don’t care what your doctor tells you he can do. You will just end up looking weird and plastic. If you are unhappy in general with something you can’t really pin-point, or you are simply looking to be someone else, you should visit a psychiatrist before you make an appointment with a plastic surgeon.
Do consider it if it’s one thing in particular that’s been causing you extreme pain, mentally or physically. I grew into my nose. I learned to love it and appreciate it. My boobs, not so much. My back and self-esteem were extremely tired of carrying around those things for so long. They caused me a ton of anguish, for a very long time.
Don’t go to just any doctor. Not without doing extensive research and digging beforehand. Plastic surgery is not a minor surgery and should be taken very seriously. If you’re required to sign a waiver saying the dude with the scalpel isn’t liable if you flat-line on the table, you should take some time to think this through. And by time, I mean years.
Do forget you read parts of this when I go in for a tummy-tuck in the next few years. Babies. They don’t do a body good.
And my most important advice…
Do try and embrace your individuality and love yourself a little bit harder.
You are beautiful.
Before
After
My once rockstar sleeper has suddenly regressed.
For the past few nights, he has been begging me to lie on the daybed in his room while he falls asleep.
I have been too tired to fight him – I know, I know, bad habits are hard to break – and it has been easier to snuggle up in the bed and play on my iPhone while he drifts off into sweet, toddler slumber, than to listen to him cry.
Once his breathing becomes loud and steady, I army-crawl out of his room and head back downstairs.
This is awesome until he wakes at 2 or 3 a.m. and realizes I’m no longer there.
That’s when I got an idea.
Because the best ideas are always at 3 a.m. Duh.
I quietly chose a stuffed monkey, with dirty-blonde fur, and created my masterpiece in the dark.
I present to you, The Fake Out.
Surprise! That’s totally not me, it’s a monkey!
(Try to ignore the bear that has his face in the monkey’s ass. Focus, people.)
It was supposed to work like this:
My kid wakes up, glances over at the bed, sees mommy all tucked in – falls back asleep.
It ended up working like this:
My kid woke up, glanced over at the bed, saw a fucking monkey – screamed bloody murder.
This trick didn’t work with my mom in high school and it’s not working with my toddler now.
Apparently everyone, older and younger, is smarter than me.
Whatever.
Before I had my son, I taught toddlers at a Montessori school. The same one my kid goes to now, actually.
There was lots of talk about floor beds and early potty training. I thought it all sounded great and scoffed at people who still had their kids in a crib once they hit the big 0-2.
I would never do that.
My kid will be three in August.
My kid sleeps in a crib.
Reality is a bitch, my friends.
I quickly discovered being a Montessorian is much easier for 3 hours a day than it is for, um, always.
But, this is not a post about teaching methods.
This is a post about the big day.
We have a few more loose ends to tie, but soon my kid will move out of his crib, into his new big boy bed and, just to make things more difficult, into a new room all together.
Why, yes, his little ass is getting evicted make room for his brother.
He’ll be moving into his playroom, sans many of the toys, so he is super familiar with this room and very comfortable in it. We’ve also had the bed in there for over a year, so he jumps up in it often and we lay there to read stories.
I have four months to get this done, you guys. He is already regressing sleep-wise as it is, asking me to fall asleep in his room with him, and I’m starting to freak out a lot bit about what this huge transition is going to do to me him.
So, I am reaching out to you, all my sweet, been-there-done-that friends that live in my computer, to guide me in this journey. I am asking for your advice, your stories, whatever you want share. Unless it’s some horror story that will send me over the edge, because I will hunt you down and and I will cut you. Pregnant mama don’t play dat.
Specifically, I would love direction in the following areas:
I have a platform bed.
I cannot find ANY bed rails to work with it. I found the sponge bumper thingamajigs that stick under the sheet, but I would love other ideas.
Also, do you guys close the door and lock them in there? I feel like I have to, safety-wise, because his room is upstairs and we are down.
What the hell do I do on the first night?
Help a mama out?
My kid had me buy him Cars tattoos.
He promised me that if I got my tattoo first, he would follow.
He totally wussed out at the last minute and left me with this on my arm.
Next time he needs to drink more chocolate milk beforehand.
You know, a little liquid courage.
Punk.
Dear Sweet Child of Mine,
Yesterday was your third day of swim class. And even though you are scared, you keep going for it. You are so proud of yourself each time the lesson ends. And, of course, I am so proud of you. But, I would be no matter what.
You love to get there early and spend time on the playground before you get your feet wet.
I was nervous, and slightly relieved – hello pregnant woman in a bathing suit – that I’m not allowed to get in the pool with you. But, you handled it so much better than I thought you would, me watching you through the window.
You are much braver than I am.
At the end of each class, you never forgot what all the hard work was for.
A lollipop.
I especially love the outfit you picked out for yesterday’s lesson.
Thankfully, with a little bribery coaxing, you didn’t get in the pool with it.
I love you so much.
Keep up the good work, my sweet little swimmer.
Did you ever hear about the girl who was scared of cooking?
Not like, “Oh man am I so tired and my husband is being a pain and I don’t want to cook,” kind of scared.
Like really scared of cooking.
It may seem funny, and there are certainly plenty of jokes to go along with it, but it’s a real phobia with a real name, Mageirocophobia.
While ones fears may seem ridiculous to others, they are very real, and very debilitating in some cases, to the person experiencing them.
Take me for example, I have a fear of power plants and other “industrial looking” stuff. Blame it on Freddy Kruger, but every time I pass a power plant on the highway or even think about a boiler room, my palms get sweaty and a feeling of sheer terror washes over me. Weird. I know.
But my power plant fear is one I can totally deal with and even laugh at. My fear of death, however, can be crippling and all consuming at times.
Yes, I am pretty sure most people have, to some degree, a fear of death and dying. What I am not sure of is if other people think about it as often as I do. Digging deeper into my psyche, you guys should stay at least ten feet back, I am certain my fear is much more one of loss, than actual death itself.
I’ve had it as long as I can remember. When I was little, it was fearing that one or both of my parents would die. Or that it would be me.
As I have gotten older, its become a fear of losing my child or my husband, or them losing me.
I lost my cousin and her family in a plane crash almost three years ago. This only fed my all consuming fear of death and loss. Many times, I am scared to be happy. Scared that if I let go of all the worry and obsessing, and let myself be joyful and fully present in the moment, that I will have the rug ripped out from under me.
I know this is an awful way to live, that’s its really not living at all. But, I see so much loss around me, in the news, and online, that it’s hard not to wonder if it will be my turn next.
Therapy, anyone?
When I sat down to write this post, I was curious about other people’s fears and phobias. So I asked my girls here on the Curvy Girl Guide to share some of their own.
Here’s what they had to say.
Katie and Ali not only share a fabulous friendship, they also share a very real fear of vomiting, or Emetophobia.
Nanette is totally scared of bugs hatching eggs in her car and having a car full of baby bugs. I totally get this, because that would be a lot of car seats.
We’ve got a ton of girls up in here that are scared of losing or hurting their pearly whites. Mishelle, for example, is scared of tripping up stairs and chipping or breaking a tooth.
And do not get hummingbirds, buffets, or mascots near Jen, especially not all at once.
Daisy is scared of heights. An issue getting worse as she gets older.
Angie, of not being believed.
And I’ll just let Audrey tell you herself, “Heights, snakes, confined spaces. My worst fear: being buried alive in a pit full of snakes at the top of a mountain.”
Those are just to name a few.
So, I want to know. What are some of your fears and phobias?
