SavageTimes

I went school clothes shopping with my daughter.

She is…gorgeous.  And she knows it.  And is thrilled with it.  She did a little dance in the fitting room, and then I had to take several photos of her posing.

Much of her newfound self-appreciation has to do with how confident she feels about herself after working as a stablehand all summer.  She fed, watered, and mucked out stalls for 15 horses.  She tacked, untacked, and cleaned tack.  She rode a horse that was not the one she grew up with, and she finally learned to get past her grief over her childhood horse’s death.  She learned to accept the current horse, Ginger, for who Ginger was, baggage and all, by realizing she has her own baggage, and perhaps she and Ginger are kindred spirits.  There will never be another Tex for my daughter.  But there can be more horses.  The end of Tex doesn’t mean the end of riding, after all.

She felt her body get stronger, carrying water, dumping troughs, tightening girths.  And she realized it didn’t matter if she had a big booty or a short torso or maybe she wasn’t as tall as she wanted to be.  She was strong, and strong girls get things done.

She felt worthy, and needed, and loved, and she stopped being afraid that, if she did something wrong, people would leave her alone.

I watched her shed her baggy athletic clothes she’s been hiding in for several years after a boy at school told her she had a “fat butt,” and girls at school told her “You’re no skinny minny, are you?”

I watched her hold her head high while wearing a dress and stare at her profile in the mirror and flex her biceps.

I watched her grow from the inside out.

I didn’t think we’d ever get here. Her confidence was shot when her dad moved out.  She felt at fault for his departure, because she takes on the weight of the world.  She and her best friend whom she’d had from the time she was three drifted apart.  A family friend, whom she had bonded with and thought of as something akin to an uncle, began pulling away at the same time, for his own reasons that had nothing to do with her, but she didn’t see that.  She only saw everyone around her leaving.  And she was certain it was because she was fat, and dumb, and ugly.

Her therapist worked with her, and I worked with her more.  Her brother stepped in to take the place of her father and her “uncle” and her best friend.  Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have let him: that’s who he is.  It made him feel good, especially when she started to laugh again.

At middle school orientation last week, most of the moms I was with were teary-eyed.  Our babies were growing up. I appreciated the sentiment but didn’t feel much more than that.

Watching her dance around in the dressing room, wearing skinny jeans and a close-fitting top, singing, “Who’s hot? I’m hot; that’s right, I’m hot!” to the mirror, I teared up.

I didn’t think we’d ever get here.

“Oh, Mommy!” she said, seeing my expression and mistaking it for regret versus teary-eyed pride.  “Hugs! It’ll be OK.  I wish you were young and beautiful, too.”

My tears dried up.

The last couple of weeks have hit me hard in various ways.  Her comment, meant as reassurance, dug deeper then it should have.

I struggled for patience and grace and also bought key lime pie truffles.  “You are beautiful,” I said to my daughter as I snarfed 4 truffles in under five minutes. “But a lot of it is your inner beauty shining through.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, eyeing me and my truffles.  “Do you feel beautiful, Mommy?”

“Most of the time,” I said, Unless little pre-teens who think they are all that tell me otherwise, I thought, but didn’t say.

“But,” she said, with a touch of regret on her face, “you’re kinda not young anymore.”

There was no whiskey on my person, or I would have done at least one shot.

“No,” I said.  “But there are things to be said for not being young anymore.”

“Like?” she said.

I struggled for patience and grace and rummaged for a truffle, but I’d eaten them all.

“Headstands,” I said.

“Headstands,” she repeated.

“I can do them,” I said.  “I couldn’t when I was your age.”

“Oh, Mommy,” she said again. She rolled her eyes but in a loving way.  “Go ahead,” she said.  “I’ll take your picture.  Why don’t you change into your new yoga top?  You look hot in that. You should wear your yoga clothes all the time.  It would help.”

Help with what? I wondered, but didn’t want to ask.

I thought of where we’d been even a few months before: low self-esteem, no confidence, self-hate. I’d done too good a job. I really wanted that whiskey.

Instead, at home, I turned upside down, flipped up, held. 

“Good job, Mommy,” said my lovely as she patted me on the arm.  “Now.  When you come down, can you send me those pictures you took of me in my new outfits?  I want to show my friends.”