My mother is having her fifth cosmetic procedure today, although in all fairness, it is to correct the botched third and fourth procedures. But the truth is, she didn’t need any of them. Her body was great the way it was, and if her thighs were a little too big or her upper arms a little saggy, we, her family, didn’t care. However, no amount of reassurance from us could ever convince her to leave her body alone.
Growing up, I had no idea my mother’s breasts weren’t real. I kept waiting for my tiny, rather misshapen (in my opinion then) breasts to magically transform into the perfectly round, large boobs my mom possessed. It never happened. For years, I wondered what went wrong and why my body failed me. My mother could have saved me a lot of agony by telling me that hers weren’t the real deal and that Mother Nature doesn’t dole out “perfect” breasts. While I understand that back then plastic surgery was a great big secret, it still irks me that she never took the time to consider how her surgically enhanced breasts affected my body image.
By the time she got her second set (larger than the first), I had been brought up to speed. She doesn’t keep it much of a secret anymore; regardless, there was no way I was going to keep it from my daughters. My ten year old knows full well that breasts like Grandma’s don’t come from nature – they come from a surgeon. She’s also been privy to the conversations about Grandma’s other procedures. She has seen the emotional and physical anguish this fifty-something woman goes through in her quest for a twenty year old’s body. And, thank God, she has the common sense to realize that it’s not healthy.
I’ve tried to convey to my kids the notion that a healthy body is what matters. You need a healthy body to keep up with the horses, run, and play volleyball. We’re a fairly active family, and we tend to focus more on what bodies can do, rather than what they look like. However, I’m no saint – I struggle with my weight from time to time, which is impossible to hide from observant children. So I tell my daughter, “Everyone has a weight they feel comfortable at. I’m not trying to turn my body into something unrealistic. I just want my jeans to fit.” And it’s true. While I can see where it would be easy to fall into the trap of thinking that skinnier is better, I’m happy to be a regular ol’ size 8. I have a weight and body mass in the exact middle of the “normal” range for my height, and I’m good with that. I’m a middle-aged mom with two kids under my belt, not a runway model in my twenties.
It took me years to become comfortable in my own skin. I don’t think I really achieved it until I trained for and ran a marathon. Running gave me a whole different perspective on the amazing human body. And even now that I don’t run so much (other than the occasional 5k with my daughter), I still have that reverence for my body. In my recent obsession with horses, I’ve realized how important our bodies are in conveying meaning to other living creatures. My horses don’t care if I put on an extra five pounds, they’re just looking for the message I’m sending them by how I move my body.
Our bodies are beautiful vehicles of communication and expression, and I’m so thankful that I’ve come to know this. I’m glad I have been blessed with daughters with whom I can share this knowledge and encourage them to embrace their own bodies with love, not loathing. Although I do not agree with my mother’s decisions to surgically alter her body, I do hope that everything turns out the way she hopes. I wish for her to finally have a sense of peace and contentment about her body.
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