Body image

Summer is in full swing, and my little family's days have been filled with t-ball games, long walks, trips to the park, roasting bun-length wieners, and (you guessed it) swimming!  For the first time since I gave birth to Sassy Pants, I bought myself a new swimming suit.  A beautiful black and white floral print one-piece.  Size 1X.  And I didn't cry.  Because, after being a parent for six and a half years, it dawned on me:  They are watching.  They are watching when we take a sweaty jog and get dirty in the garden.  They are watching when we squeeze lemon into our water and dance around the house.  But they are also watching when we weigh ourselves every day and when we squeeze into a pair of jeans and cry.  I'd rather them see me squeeze into a 1X swimsuit and run through the sprinkler, squealing with joy. 

For 30 years, I've been a chubby female in a society that thinks I should hate my body.  Oddly enough,  I don't feel any differently about my body when I'm at my fittest than I do when I'm at my heaviest.  Because, listen, friends.  My body has been the captain of a volleyball team and three softball teams.  My body has carried and rocked babies to sleep.  My body has danced in bars with handsome men and hugged grieving friends.  My body has paddled rafts over rough currents and delicately focused microscopes.  It is capable of beautiful things; the least it can do is wear a new floral 1X swimsuit and run around in the sunshine with the children it grew.