Staring into my wardrobe I am overcome with familiar feelings of self- loathing and despair. The kind of indulgent, all-consuming bullsh*t despair that you can let yourself fall into when you don’t have any big problems to deal with.
I see two vacuum packed bags full of ‘skinny’ clothes from a previous life, sitting in the bottom of my wardrobe like a beacon of failure. These aren’t for you chub, keep looking, they taunt. It has been a year since giving birth and I have lost nothing. In fact I have gained.
My daughter crawls around my feet, picking up the entrails of my closet that have spilled out onto the floor and stuffing them into her mouth; chewable? Not chewable? These are the thoughts that occupy her mind. A roll of tummy spills out below her too small top, and sits comfortably upon her low lying pants. “She’ll lose it,” people reassure, “once she starts walking.”
My daughter at age one has giggled and gurgled, as strangers in supermarkets make cooing noises, playfully poking her belly button, and offering comments like, ”She’s a chunky little thing isn’t she?”
She doesn’t know what she looks like yet, she doesn’t care about her stomach and her thighs. Her body is for moving and playing and discovering new things. Not looking at.
And what the strangers don’t know is that one day when she’s waiting restlessly for her mother to stop talking to them, using her flowing skirt as a cape and then a mask, she will tune into a conversation at just the wrong moment. She will look up when she sees the stranger’s gaze move down towards her, and feel her mother’s hand as it finds a soothing place upon her head. “She’s quite big isn’t she? Still got her baby fat? She’ll grow out of that when she gets taller.”