Lele and I were taking a shower together a few nights ago.
Her: Mama, you are so bouncy. (poking me in the side)
Me: Bouncy?
Her: Yeah. You know, my Daddy isn't bouncy at all.
Me: So then what is he?
Her: He's kind of like Jack Skellington.
I never really thought of the extra few pounds I've put on over the last year as "bouncy", but I much prefer that description to "belly fat" or "love handles". "Bouncy" almost sounds like fun. Like jumpy castles and trampolines! Wheee! I'm bouncy! Like Violet Beauregard in the Willie Wonka movie.
See? Fun. Wait, but things didn't turn out so well for Violet, did they?
In any case, Lele's observation got me thinking about how many freaking years I've wasted being insecure about my weight and having what could be called- in a VAST freaking understatement- a "negative body image" (and that would be putting it lightly). I was in high school during that whole "waif" thing and let me tell you, my school churned out more anorexics and bulimics than you could shake a stick at. I teetered on the edge of that myself. I don't want that for Lele. Lately, I've felt that insecurity flare up again, but I refuse to ever contribute to that mentality when it comes to my own daughter.
So that's enough of me getting dressed in front of her while singing The Smiths, "You're the one for me fatty..." to myself under my breath. Enough of me saying, "Hold on, let me get my fat butt on this thing" as I'm trying to get on a swing at the park. It's bad for her and it's bad for me. So that's it. No more. Size 4 Lucky Jeans, you can kiss my bouncy ass.
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