It's been said that a picture is worth a thousand words. It's also been said that you should be nice to your mother.
What I've learned is that when your mother is a photographer, you need to be extra-super-I.suck.helium nice.
Epic fail.
In my parents' house, there is one particular (and, might I add, prominently displayed) picture that set off about 20,000 words (most of them profane) and also makes me seriously question what I did that reallyreallyreallyreally pissed my mom off.
The picture, you ask? That would be a family picture of Little M's first ever beach day. This should have been a beautiful family milestone, captured forever on film. Little M looks adorable, and her dad looks good. And then there's me-- a ghostly pale, still +5lb postpartum mom in a bathing suit- shot from a not so flattering side angle. I'm acutely aware that the camera can add 10 pounds, but I was unaware that it could also add cellulite. It's awful. AWFUL- and it's on display for all the world to see.
Let it be known that I'm not a "let's display bathing suit pictures of me" kind of person. I'm not a tight clothes person. I've lived in a neighborhood with a pool for nearly four years, and I've been to the neighborhood pool no more than 6 times, and at least 2 of those times, I wore a floor length maxi-dress. There are few places were I am comfortable wearing a bathing suit. The time I was un-self-conscious in a bathing suit was, ironically enough, when I was pregnant---and that's primarily because I (a) knew that I looked like a beached whale, (b) didn't much care and (c) I was wearing said bathing suit to attend aquacize class with senior citizens and and even though I was a double-wide load, I was at least a double-wide load with relative youth on my side.
I'd say that I hate that picture, but the truth is that picture was a wake-up call and the catalyst for a major physical transformation. For this very reason, I'll always have a special fondness for that picture.
Following is a brief list of my initial reactions to that picture:
1. WTF! What the $*(#$(*)$ $*($(*$(($*$ #@(**(@@(#@( happened to you? You used to be kinda cute.
2. Oh, for shit's sake- what's next? Elastic waistband pants?
3. I'm pretty sure that your ass did not have a baby, though this picture indicates otherwise.
3. Maybe one of those 1920's style swimsuits would have been a better idea.
4. JESUS! Where is your pride, girl? It's been 10 months since you had the kid.
5. You had a child- that doesn't entitle you to go to complete crap.
6. When exactly did you grow a second ass?
7. This is Brigantine, not Sea World. C'mon, Flipper, do something with yourself.
I'm not disputing that I am brutally self-critical. I'm also not disputing that I, like many women, have my fair share of body-image issues. I can never find my keys or my ID badge, but I can locate every flaw on my body----blindfolded. It is what it is. I'm just not a fan.
When I was in my twenties, I was told that you began to appreciate your body in your thirties. Lie. Before Little M was born, I was told that pregnancy and parenthood would lead to greater appreciation. Bigger lie. Suffice it to say, I wasn't a "I love being pregnant" kind of person and I wasn't the person who marveled over how my body could sustain life. I was more of a "the end better justify the means" kind of pregnant person. As far as I'm concerned, the only good thing about being pregnant was the part when it was over and I got to keep the best.little.girl.in.the.world.
That picture, though---that picture really got to me. I hated that picture, and I hated that I hated that picture (make sense out of THAT one). I didn't want to raise a daughter with the same body-image issues that plagued with, but at the same time, I didn't want to be a hot mess, either. I needed to do SOMETHING.
Here's the cool part- I actually followed through.
The credit actually goes to my husband, who was talking about a few coworkers who had drastically positive results after completing a program named Insanity. After about a beat, I was sold. How hard could a 60 day workout program be that was sold via infomercial and successfully completed by a small group of accountants?
Riiiiiiiiiiight.
I was the one who was insane. I've worked out regularly since I was 18, and I thought I was going to have a heart attack during my first Insanity workout. During the warm-up.
That first workout was 2 years and 5 months ago. I have not looked back.
The first few weeks were absolutely brutal, but I pushed on. 6 days a week. At godawful hours. Through knee pain, and back pain, and a partially torn rotator cuff. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, was going to stop me from completing that 60 day program.
At the end of the 60 days, I did what only a criminally insane person would do. I went "Insane" again, then moved onto P90X (way easier than Insanity), Insanity Asylum, P90X2, Chalean Extreme. I joined the Beachbody cult and became a workout junkie.
Basically, I became a meathead. Who knew that I would love being a meathead?
Through the great meathead transformation, I began to make peace with my own body. Not because of how much better I started to look- though it was a vast improvement from the zoo animal called "Squishy Mommy" that I once resembled---but because of what I was able to train my body to do through hard work, determination, and a whole lot of pain. This body could now do push-ups (real "boy" pushups) and lots and lots of them. The body that struggled with 8 pound weights could consistently workout with 20 pound dumbbells (and, in some cases, up to 30 pounds). Squishy Mommy could now do an occasional "real" pull-up, and leap through agility ladders, and one-armed pushups.
I gleefully bid adieu to Squishy Mommy. Squishy Mommy is no more. May we never meet again.
These days, Mama's back to pre-baby weight, with an extra added bonus--this Mama has muscle and the pride of knowing that those muscles were hard-earned. Little M will hopefully never remember Squishy Mommy, but I sincerely hope she remembers our workouts together. The girl loves her 2 pound purple weights---and she has gorgeous form on her shoulder presses.
I remain a work in progress----but I'm loving the work, and I'm loving the progress.
It's great when it's earned,
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