Thursday was one of those stupid days. It was hot, we were bored, and Zoe has decided that napping is like “so 2 years old, and I’m 2 years and 3 months now, fool.”
I had asked (maybe begged) (on my hands and knees) Christian if he could come home early so we could go to the YMCA and check out the pool. But I know the dude’s gotta work and earn that green that pays our mortgage and stuff, so I tried hard not to sound too desperate. I mean, he never calls me to rescue him when servers start going all haywire, so what right do I have to guilt him into coming home before I go insane?
Don’t answer that.
But he’s a good man who cherishes his wife’s sanity and doesn’t care to bring about his own demise, so here he was and off we were to the pool. Which brought me to my second problem(s).
Swimsuit. Public. Other people. Jiggly thighs. Rotund waistline.
Oh, I also may or may not have been having some symptoms and emotions involving the PMS.
As far as appearing in public in a swimsuit, part of me has adopted the attitude of “I’m a mother of three, I know I’m not in perfect shape, but my kids want to swim with me, so suck it.”
And it’s true. I’m not trying to pick up dudes. I know I’m not the best pool bod, but I’m definitely not the worst. The Y pool is all families, so there’s no competition, no reason to be self conscious. It’s for fun, and I know that no one there really cares if I don’t look like a swimsuit model.
But still. The other part of me carries the attitude of “WTF pool mom? A six pack? Really? Go to hell.”
So it was on this Thursday with my bad attitude and my ill fitting swimsuit that I tried to let go of my negative feelings and just have fun. We splashed around in the shallow area and cooled off from the blazing sun as I tried to refrain from checking out the other pool moms in their suits, ill fitting or not.
Rachel splashed over to me and threw her arms around my neck. She’s my lover, my sweetie, randomly telling me, her sisters, and her Twilight Sparkle that she loves us at various times throughout the day.
“Mommy,” she said as she hung tight to my neck in the shallow water. “Mommy, you’re beautiful.”
She wasn’t even prompted by my husband to say this to me.
And then it didn’t matter. The swimsuits, the jiggly thighs, the boobs that aren’t where they used to be. None of it mattered.
My kids don’t care if I can’t suck it in or if my thighs have a little extra, ahem, texture. They want to show me their spectacular spinning booty flops and how they can repeatedly give me a heart attack by going underneath. They want me to catch them on the slide and swim with them on my back.
They want to be with me, not my hang ups.
Our kids, our husbands…they see us, not our insecurities. What they know is on the inside translates to what they see on the outside.
And to her? I was beautiful.