Destination Unstoppable

This post is part of YummyMummyClub.ca‘s support of the Dove® Unstoppable Moms for Unstoppable Girls Contest. I received compensation as a thank you for my participation. This post reflects my personal opinion about the information provided by the sponsors. Go to www.UnstoppableMoms.ca to enter by sharing how you inspire girls to reach their full potential.

I held the tray full of drinks up over my head and turned sideways. Gently laying a hand on the back in front of me — no sudden moves, please — I slid effortlessly through the crowded dance floor. Winding my way past tables and through the narrow crevices between one group of friends and another, I found my way to the right spot, traded my full glasses for empty ones, and turned back to do my server’s ballet once more.

Being thin was about more than just looks for me. It informed how I moved and how I experienced the world. It was simply how I was built and I never had to worry about it one way or the other.

* * *

“Did you weigh yourself today?” my midwife asked.

“Yes, 148,” I said. “I’ve been trying to make sure I eat enough.”

If my midwife was amused, she didn’t betray herself. I needn’t have worried. The 15 pounds I’d put on during the first trimester alone, and the 35 pounds or more (at some point you start fudging the numbers even to yourself) I put on in the latter two trimesters was more than ample.

* * *

I was lying on my side, lifting one leg up and holding it. Then we were all tracing little circles in the air with our toes. Forward. Backward. Forward. And back. Our babies gurgled and cooed on the mats in front of us. Some were crying and one of the bigger ones kept crawling toward the door.

God, I hated postpartum pilates. Who were these women anyway? Who pops out a baby and is back in size 4 jeans in a matter of weeks? I was supposed to be the skinny one. “I am like you,” I wanted to cry out. “This isn’t the real me!”

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Of course. There it was, the gap (a yawning chasm, really) between what I intellectually knew about my body and how I felt about it. I could hear the choral refrain: Stay active and you’ll lose the weight eventually. Pregnancy is different for everyone. And you still look fantastic!

I put on a cheery face, even as I bumped my postpartum belly into a woman’s head getting off the subway. I also kept knocking over chairs at home. I didn’t know how to deal with the chaffing between my inner thighs after walking in a skirt all day either. This wasn’t my body, I kept thinking.

I never took another pilates class again.

* * *

I lost most of the weight.

I had another baby.

I lost some of it.

I had another baby.

I lost less of it.

I sat around all winter eating shortbread and salami. Not at the same time. I still have standards.

I gained most of it back.

* * *

“I don’t want that,” I said to Ed. “I’m on a -. I’m going to have a salad instead because I haven’t had enough vegetables today. Veggies make you strong.”

Someone already called her fat. Can you believe it? She’s a little wisp of a girl, only in junior kindergarten and someone already called her fat at school. It was another four-year-old who only understood that it was an insult. The primary use of that word was to hurt, the descriptive value inconsequential.

I can’t protect my girls from all the body-image warping influences of the world. But I can bloody well make sure they don’t get it from me.

* * *

It was Irene’s first-ever day of t-ball and the fielding coach was a twelve year old girl. Irene looked on in awe and proudly marched out onto the field with her teammates. They were a rag-tag bunch of three and four-year-old boys and girls, tired at the end of a long day. “Who’s ready to field another ball?” the girl asked. “Me! Me! Me!” Irene said.

The coach rolled out a ground ball and Irene stopped it with her glove. She picked it up off the ground and threw it back effortlessly. The young coach wore a baseball shirt and pants and her cap sat above her pony tail. She was a pretty girl who could also play with the boys and that meant the world to my impressionable four-year-old. It was written all over her face.

If I ever doubted the power of female role models before, I didn’t anymore. And I doubled down on my own commitment to be the unstoppable role model my daughters deserve.

* * *

“Ready. Set. Go!”

We’re racing up the stairs like we do every day. I let her get just far enough ahead that I have to sprint to catch up with her and then just barely lose at the top.

The spring is here and we’re walking more and driving less. I’ve started skipping. Kind of.

We play a lot of catch in the backyard and we log a lot playground time.

I am trying not to overeat, but I don’t talk about it much.

It looks like we’ll have raspberries growing out back this year.

I just registered Irene the other day. She’ll be playing hockey with her brother in the fall.

Mary cannot wait until it’s her turn.

I pick her up without complaint and carry her around while I still can. This is my body, after all, and it’s a good one.

And it will be better yet.

Ready.

Set.

Go!

Are you an unstoppable mom? Share YOUR story about a time when you thought about quitting an activity you loved because of how you felt about your body and let them know how you think moms/role models can better support girls to participate in activities. You have until June 13, 2013 to enter. You could win $2,500 for yourself and $2,500 will be donated to help raise a girl’s self-esteem.

Check out more stories on YummyMummyClub.ca about amazing unstoppable moms.