I’ve been noticing a trend lately. Women are trying to reclaim themselves and the media. Okay – maybe it’s not a trend. Maybe it’s something I’ve become more attuned to because I’ve noticed that I’m really tired of trying to make excuses for the way I look. Frankly, I don’t have the time or the effort anymore. I am surprised I make it out of the house alive most mornings, let alone with a clean shirt or shoes on. And if the shirt was clean, by the time my son gets to it, it won’t be. Trust me.
I come from a family of all women. Strong women. Women who made real to me their struggles. These women weren’t perfect. They made both good and bad choices. They struggled with their finances, their weight, their jobs, their hair, etc. etc. etc. But they…and me…did it together. We did it together. And as I celebrate what would have been my grandmothers birthday this Wednesday, it’s not her struggles I remember, but it’s the touch of her hand. The joy of her smile. The sweet laughter she had when I said something silly. The gentle way she turned the pages of her books. The way she fell asleep in her chair. The way she cheered on her favorite baseball/basketball/football team. Her greeting me on the phone when I would call her for nothing and everything. That’s what I remember….and what I miss.
I have a chance now to teach my son the wealth I learned from those women. I can teach him what a real woman is. What we look like. What we struggle with…and how we OVERCOME those struggles. How those struggles DO NOT define us. Because I can assure you, my son doesn’t care that my tummy isn’t flat anymore (not that it ever was). My son doesn’t care that my hair rarely gets done. He doesn’t care that I do my makeup on the car on the way to work. He doesn’t care that I even wear makeup. He loves me regardless. He loves that I know how to hold him to make him fall asleep. He loves that I take him outside to water our plants together because I know he loves that. He cares that on a day I have no patience, I get in the bathtub with him and we read and nurse, and regain our closeness. And hopefully, I’ll eventually be able to teach his siblings that mommy loves them even when she stays in her jammies all day.
But maybe the media is catching on to this phenomenon. Or maybe it’s just the people I’m friends with. But I’m seeing things like this just exploding over the internet:
I have also seen blogs like this popping up everywhere. Something is stirring. Are you feeling it too? I think we’re on the cusp of realizing that a toned arms, six-packed tummy, and buns of steel body isn’t realistic for everyone anymore. I think we’re trying. Women are trying. Shauna Niequest, in an article in Relevent Magazine, said, “Because community—the rich kind, the transforming kind, the valuable and difficult kind—doesn’t happen in partial truths and well-edited photo collections on Instagram. Community happens when we hear each other’s actual voices, when we enter one another’s actual homes, with actual messes, around actual tables telling stories that ramble on beyond 140 pithy characters.”
So I sit her in my dirty t-shirt, covered in drool, my pajama pants that are a size too big, with my sweet baby, a sink full of dishes, and a loving husband. I guarantee it’s not perfect, but it’s me.