I have a handful of friends that mesmerize me with their writing talents and one of those friends is Tracy Morrison from Sellabit Mum. Tracy is a fellow Minnesota like me and we met years ago at a blogging conference. The once or twice a year I actually leave my little town to venture to blogging conferences in the Big City, I always look for Tracy’s smiling face. Long-story-short, she is a crafter of words, is funny as hell, but also writes good stuff. Deep, though invoking stuff. One of my favs was this one and most recently, this one.
After reading that post, I had a “wwwwooowwww, I didn’t know that about you” moment, but then I fell right back into the awe I have for Miss Tracy.
But this honesty hit home as well.
For me, I am at the opposite end of the spectrum. Instead of the thin child, I was the chubby kid who grew into an even chubbier adult. Food was a friend, vice, and comfort. Am I a food addict? Not sure. But I do know being a chubby kid is no fun. I have memories of being picked last in gym and maybe it was a co-inky-dink, but every Valentines Day I swear I would always end up with an alarming number of hippo-in-a-tutu Valentine’s cards from classmates.
Those memories flood back to me now as I look at my own beautiful, vibrant 8-year-old daughter. The mirror image of me in looks, but also body type. She is like me in so many ways including being a picky eater and being bull-headed. But I also see her heading down the path of being the “chubby girl in school” and I feel sick with worry.
On the flip-side, she is confident, bubbly and could give a crap less about her weight, a trait she did NOT get from me. I admire her spunk and spirit and can only hope that carries her through during those times when kids at school are less than kind.
If I could write a letter to 8-year-old me, I wonder what I would say?
Would I say “don’t eat that Chic-o-Stick! It will go right to your thighs and stay there for 40+ years!”
Or would I say, “Stop worrying about what everyone says. Love you. You ARE good enough.”
I’d like to think I’d say the latter. My inner eight-year-old-me deserves to feel has saucy and beautiful as my current Mini Me does. Yet another moment when our children turn out to be wiser than their parents 🙂