mama, do my thighs touch?

the first time I questioned the validity of my body, of the space it took up, I was in middle school. a boy told my best friend that she had nice legs. he said not a word to me. I sat back down at my desk watching the way my pale skin spread and covered the chair. took inventory of the other preteen legs and how they held shape, looked more tan, and had Less. with this simple situation the fascination began with my need to be less as a way to be more. at 32, I, of course, know better that to blame the boy for triggering this mental and emotional pattern that would continue my whole life.

this morning I sent my middle little girl off to sixth grade. clothed in enthusiasm and pride in her outfit choice. a girl prepared to take on middle school. she is strong and smart and funny. her love of herself extends just as far as her love of her friends and family. I admire and envy this quality in my sweet girl. but, do I fear that the end of her self-love is near? honestly… yea. it has me dissecting their conversations and paying special attention to how I talk about myself in front of them.

I over heard my youngest ask her sister if a pair of her shorts were too short the other day. the dress code for school was on the brain as we rapidly approached the end of their summer wardrobe freedom. I let them wear whatever they want, for the most part, and feel that school policies are antiquated and sexist. but, that’s a story for another day. as they rifled through their closet putting nothing back where they found it and executing the highest pitch excitement two girls can muster, I crept nearer hoping they wanted my advice. instead, my 9 year old spun around in her cartoon underwear atop a pile of discarded selections and asked, “mama, do my thighs touch when I stand like this? maybe that’s why I only like leggings and not jeans mom.”

now, let’s pretend that I had a reasonable response. that I was able to correct her for even asking because she’s beautiful and perfect in this body of hers. that I hugged her and reminded her how loving herself is a harder lesson to relearn as an adult so this negative talk had better get squashed. but, I sat on her bed and folded up clothes and asked her who told her that it mattered. I knew the answer. she had heard me on vacation complaining about my “bikini body” and how my thighs used to touch when I was fit and how I was thankful that being “thick & healthy” was in style now because these thighs of mine are blah, blah, blah.

having to answer for my bad habits at the cost of my girl’s is a game changer.

I have always talked very openly about my eating disorder recovery. doing a yearly check-in where I purge my thoughts and feelings on this self-propelled process of calling a thing what it is and making it better. this works for me. I know that I have to come home to myself so it’s best that I keep it tidy and treat it with care. up thirty pounds (give or take) from my smallest adult weight, I posted a transformation photo a last year. I had done a few modeling spots and was feeling confident in my curves and the new found sexiness that I could own. tucked away were the less present obsessive behaviors. diverted were times when I would restrict or limit. for the most part I was in control. I counted last year a success. enough to say I was moving through the disease as a battle and into it as a place of progress.

deep sigh. this is recovery.

being better has meant coming to terms with ED as an evolving disease. as it has morphed and disguised itself into healthy habits and #treatyourself and indulging in a society of often misguided self-care. I am starting to recognize that my behaviors have shifted from actual addictive behavior to an addiction to recovery. whoa, sounds weird, but in a social media climate that shoves natural lifestyle and acceptance down your throat it is easier to keep up the facade of recovery, even when I am not feeling at home in my skin. the mom community is perhaps the worst place for it, in my opinion. the life we live becomes only a small sliver of the life we curate for others to admire, criticize, and emulate. as if raising little humans isn’t hard enough, we also have to be picture perfect mamas with organic meals and eco friendly homes and little humans clad in conscious clothing. in reality, it has been a way for me use my disease as fashion, as trend. it demands to be stated that this is my experience only. truth- as hard as I am still working to maintain it is a bit discouraging to admit that I would love to lose weight if it weren’t so damn cool to be happy with who you are.

ultimately, I really am okay with where I am at with my body. I practice taking up space. the language in which I speak to myself is dramatically different, not perfect, but better. I keep myself, my home tidy.

call my current place in recovery regression, if I must, but I also call it awareness and grace. because I’m choosing to see the slip ups as an opportunity to change the way my girls will learn to love themselves. stopping to check myself because it is clear that I am already passing along some negative habits. by honoring the bad with the good and knowing which wins.

the year of BIG things.

“If I’m gonna tell a real story,

I’m gonna start with my name.”     -Kendrick Lamar

for the past decade, my name has been the most trivial aspect of my self.

trading it instead for mom. or calling sordid acquaintances by it. scribbling it on various paper works.

never has it felt my own or done much at all to describe who I am, who I’ve grown to be.

I had to think about how much my name actually means to me? the answer- not much. I wish it did. I would love to have a legacy denoted by a surname or a deep connection with the meaning behind my first name. other than the last name I share with my children, there’s not much else I like about it- sorry mom.

the way I see it, names are given to us by virtual strangers before we have any history to attribute to them. we spend most of our lives trying to live up to this title. presenting ourselves, name first, in almost every encounter. but what happens when our name is dictated by life not birth, can that be a liberation?

I believe it will be.

in the very near future, I will be divorced. my children’s last name will then be shared with their dad’s new wife. coincidentally, her name is also Stephanie. (trust me, this has gotten a few laughs.) I feel more unsettled about this aspect of the life change than I anticipated. my name will no longer be my own- whether I like it or not.  after struggling with the loss of this connection, I decided to craft a pen name, turned legal name (soon), approved by my littles and this is the place it begins.

when I ended my writing of 2017, on a magical night of poetry and read under my birth name for the last time, it felt like a release of all the topics and token words I had used to make my way through healing, like home and whiskey and ghosts, that seem to have found their way in to every single piece of writing on my old blog. they felt recycled and insincere by the end of this chapter in my life.  the piece I read that night ended with the lines, “I know I am a place to worship, even at my most empty. So, when I look my love and grief in eyes for the last time, full of more stillness than sacrifice, I will finally change my/our name.”

with that, I start 2018 by taking a breath. choosing to live a life full of captured opportunities, gratefulness for what is truly meant for me, and contentment in my own life. sitting in my hard-earned happiness until the words come back to me.