Recently, I read something that stuck with me.
It resonated with me. I don’t have a lot of pictures of me with the kids, or with Hubs, and there are some valid reasons for this– I am generally the picture taker, for example– there are plenty of stupid reasons, too. Maybe because I don’t have makeup on, or because I have a continent-sized zit on my face, or because (gasp!) I am overweight. (Again.) And I don’t want to see myself that way. I don’t want others to see me that way.
But the facts of the case are these:
I am an overweight mother of three with zits who sometimes doesn’t wear makeup.
And the greater truth is this:
Who gives a flying shit?
Would I love to be writing this in size 8 jeans? Yup. Would I love to have thick flowing hair and clear skin and a flat stomach? Yup.
Have I ever in my adult like been in an 8? Nope. Have I stopped having zits yet even though I’m nearly 40? Nope nope. Even when I danced rigorously six days a week, did I have a flat stomach? NOPE.
But the other thing is that all of that shit is about me. It has nothing to do with my children, my husband, or my family, who don’t care about any of it. My kids don’t think I’m fat, they think I am snuggly. My husband happens to think I am hot. My family just wants to see a smile on my face.
So when my mother posted this picture of me on Facebook:
My first instinct was to pretend like I never saw it. Never saw the multiple chins, sweaty hair, bad dye job, and chunky arms. My mom was gracious enough (or not tech-savvy enough) to not tag me. No one really had to know who wasn’t present at my sister’s wedding.
Instead, I rolled right over that bitch and tagged myself, chins and all.
Then I tagged myself in this one, even though I have some kind of random boob/armpit fat that is apparently holding a solo dance party, my crow’s feet extend to my hairline, and my hair is on fire:
And then I even took credit for this Muppet face dancing I was doing:
Because in that first picture, my beautiful niece was dancing her little booty off. Because I rarely get to see her and she and I were dancing fools and she was happy with me and we had fun.
In the second, Funk and I were rocking our rear ends off. The dance floor was pretty much empty, except for me and the Pair kids, because we are the party everywhere we go. I’m pretty sure the song was Love Shack. I can’t help myself when Love Shack comes on.
In that last one, I am on my knees, slow dancing with my four year old little squeeze. He was so gracious and sweet, ever the gentleman, and even kissed my hand after we were done like some knight in a fairy tale.
This is what I want my kids to remember. I want them to remember that Mommy was on the dance floor with them, from the very beginning to the very end of that reception. That even when their “dancing” included balls-out RUNNING LAPS around the dance floor, I was right there with them, holding their hands and flapping my arm fat all up in that bitch.
I am doing what I can do about the overweight thing. While I’m not where I want to be, it’s not like I’m scootering around. I can move, I can run, I can dance. And ultimately, I am not going to let that steal my happiness. Or the memories of my kids.
I won’t let it define me, even as I am slowly trying to change it.
I’m not only going to be ridiculous with them, for them, I am proudly going to be photographed being ridiculous for posterity.
On that night, in that dress, chins and all, that was me. And honestly, I am not interested in being anyone else.