Love Your Daughter, As She Is: Take it A Step Further

I felt the need to piggy back onto friend and colleague Christina Katz’s post from yesterday: Love Your Daughter As She Is Day! A Call For Society To Confront Our Obsession with Anorexic-looking Women (read the full post here).

In summary, after viewing the Academy Awards with her daughter, Christina put out a call to moms everywhere to stand up to the image that Hollywood projects to our impressionable daughters, that of thinness—to the the extent of sometimes resembling expensively-coutured living skeletons. (The sometimes-sometimes-not revered Angelina Jolie looked like hell, reminiscent of the emaciated Lara Flynn Boyle during her Jack Nicholson days.) We need to be having conversations about healthy body image with our daughters.

With all of the focus on “Who are you wearing?” and the major brown-nosing, the spotlight on the Red Carpet and during the Oscars was on unhealthy “beauty,” thinness wrapped up in ridiculously expensive clothing and jewels, with “perfect” hair and make-up, that mere humans can’t even begin to dream about. They can covet it though… And our young daughters can be easily persuaded to covet Holocaustic thinness, because it considered “beautiful” by the obscenely rich and famous.

My girls have gone there, as Christina’s daughter has, comparing themselves to what they see in magazines, on TV and online. They notice. How can they not with all of the images pounding regularly into their psyches?

What do I tell my daughters? I tell them they’re perfect just the way they are (same for my sons). They should have and demand respect for themselves and their bodies. They should love the bodies were given and appreciate their uniqueness. And, of course, as their mom and a woman, I can be part of the problem or the solution.

Christina states, “We can change our daughters’ futures by raising our own awareness about self-abuse among women and talking openly and honestly about how to love and accept ourselves instead of further dis-empowering and abusing our bodies.”

I agree. And so I take it a step further. What am I modeling for my girls? How do I feel about myself? My weight, height, body type, how I’m aging? And more importantly, how do I address it? Do I run to a plastic surgeon, diet, and/or bemoan the unjustness and effects of time and gravity? (NO!) How do I take care of myself (eat, drink exercise, relax, play)? What are my friendships like? How do I treat others? How do I honor myself?

You get the idea. What are your ideas for empowering our next generation of women? Share here and pass it on!

Spotted! Multiracial Family in a City Near You

The reactions to our conspicuous family seem to be on the upswing lately. And the reactions seem to be more overt than usual. I feel like we’re seen as some new exotic zoo species.

In Chicago last week Mark and I were sure that we were going to be anointed or given some medal for being a multiracial family. We stopped in the south loop to grab a quick bite before spending the day on Michigan Avenue.  A couple, perhaps a decade up on us, sat next to our booth. We wouldn’t have noticed them in the busy loud diner if not for their fascinating behavior—abundant “approval ratings,” indicated by numerous big nods and even bigger smiles.

Still weak from the stomach flu, I regarded my untouched soup for most of the meal, praying they wouldn’t approach because I didn’t feel like conversing with them. They didn’t, however every time I looked up the couple nodded and smiled at me or at Mark—if they caught his eye. The kiddos were facing us, unaware that we were being considered for sainthood. I was relieved when they paid their check and scooted. We finished our meal about the same time; Mark and I silently agreed to wait a bit before asking for ours, hoping the couple weren’t lying in-wait outside the restaurant.

The other day I took A swimsuit shopping since she outgrew her one-piece by several sizes. In the outdoor mall area two guys just about tripped over themselves goggling my young chics, who were completely absorbed in messing round with each other and G, giddy and free from a long day at school.

Yes, they are beautiful (as any mama of her brood would attest), but what was interesting was the young men (high school- to college-aged) were so over-obvious that I just stopped walking and stood watching them watch my girls. And you know what? They still couldn’t stop oogling my girls. The guys glanced at me. They took G in. They understood we were a mom and her kids. They knew I was watching them and they continued to weave and turn almost drunkenly as they looked again and again and again, and then over their shoulders again. I’d chalk it up to my girls being Asian, but not this time. The guys were Asian.

Now, of course, I have no idea through which lens the couple at breakfast viewed us, but it was mighty uncomfortable, and in our vast Chicago experiences, unusual. The Asian guys? That was something new for us. What was their lens? Young men eyeing lovely young girls? I don’t know…

The Gift of Childhood

It’s winter here where I live, but I’m a summer-to-fall soul. As much as I appreciate the beauty and quiet of the freshly fallen white blanket that covers the earth where we live, I ache for warmer days and more light. Every once and a while I find myself pining for my childhood.  The scent of hay, pungent sweet clover, the sound of bees—they bring the memories racing back, knocking me over with their almost tangible presence.

As a child I spent my summers outside, from just after breakfast until long past when the fireflies began their evening dance.  I only took breaks to eat, coming home to the sound of our meal bell or to light at one of the many neighbors’ picnic tables in our rural community.  There were summers where the majority of nights were spent in tents—at our house or one of my girlfriends’.

I was soothed (and still am) by the certain way the meadow grass sounded as the gentle warm humid summer breeze caused it to sway.  I spent a lot of time time laying in the meadow, invisible, dreaming and imagining, watching the clouds above me morph into fantastical images, only to dissipate and become something else.  I eagerly scanned the heavens for the next set of fluffiness, excited to see how they would tantalize and mesmerize my youthful perspective while I was enveloped by the symphonic orchestration of scent and sound going on around me. There was nowhere else I would rather be and that it is where I still travel in my mind to center, balance, and soothe. Be.

On the days I hung with my rowdy all-boy brothers, I waded into the creek, skipping stones and finding those slimy stinkers (crawdads) with my fingers, suffering a number of good pinches over the years. I wasn’t about to be upstaged by my brothers, so I joined in—catching garter snakes (one had umpteen babies after we brought her home), fish, crickets, and tadpoles (some of which made it into froghood). My mom welcomed it all. Took it in stride.

My brothers and I created forts, safe and contained fires, and carnivals. We made planks to jump our bikes and skinned our knees and elbows in the process—all without the protection of helmets or pads. I climbed trees, often sitting high above for hours watching over my small world and learning a lot about gravity and balance. I also rode bareback, fearless, with only twine from a hay bale to steer my great steed. I came to understand about the quick reflexes of rider and horse and why it was necessary to keep a roving eye on my surroundings when galloping though the trees. Every day was an adventure. I couldn’t risk enough. I was free!

As a parent I wish I could find the confidence to give my kids the same gifts my mom gave me and my brothers—peace and quiet from the “noise,” more permission to take risks, and the ability to experience nature, to be free from fear. I try, but feel I come up short.

The fear developed within me, arriving as a parasite on the wings of parenthood. When H was born I felt the full weight of parenthood—to protect fiercely, a love so profound I felt I would suffocate in it, a responsibility to raise a child with a strong moral compass, a commitment to taste a childhood similar to mine. I felt the same with J, A and G as well.

My kids enjoy being outside, however they don’t stray too far without me. I’ve shared my fear and I know they’ve lost true childhood experiences, those independent of their parents, because I do so.  They hike, camp, ride bikes, but they do so with me or another adult, and that’s sad. I will say this though; A is like her mama. She loves nature and regularly catches frogs, toads and snakes and brings them home. And I smile inside and feel better, but I still wonder… Where in their memories will my kiddos travel when they are adults and feel the need to center themselves? Will their childhood experiences have been enough to ground them?