Pretty In Pink

The other day while driving, my 2 (twelve days from being 3) year old asked me, “Mommy, am I pretty?” And in that moment, my heart dropped.

My toddler, my TODDLER, asked me if she was pretty. (My son, who is 7, has never asked me if he’s pretty or cute or handsome. The closest he’s come is asking if he got all the peanut butter off his face.) After assuring her that she is always beautiful then quickly changing the subject, I was assaulted by my own questions: Why was she asking this? How could I stop it? Does she really know what she is asking and does she really care about the answer? How much does she understand about physical appearances? How concerned is she about her own appearance? I needed answers. And fast.

The first question-why was she asking that question-was the easiest to answer. She was asking because certain people, mainly one relative, are constantly telling her how pretty she is. There is nothing wrong with telling someone they are pretty but when it is the only thing that person is telling her, there is a problem. This same relative is telling her that if she curls her hair she will be pretty or paints her nails she will be pretty or wears a dress she will be pretty. It is a constant reinforcement that Lucy needs to be pretty or must find a way to make herself pretty. An example would be “We will curl your hair and then you will be real pretty.” And her outfit compliments are always the same “Oh don’t you look like such a pretty little girl?” I am not exaggerating when I say it is a constant concept this relative is, basically, drilling into my daughter’s head. And now I am seeing the consequences of that.

So how can I stop it? Do I tell my relative to cease calling my daughter pretty? Or do I ignore that relative and focus on what I can control, such as educating my daughter and nurturing her in a different way? The first thing I believe I will do is stop taking her with to my hair appointments or let her watch me get ready. At the hair salon she is surrounded by the industry that thrives on physical appearance and materialism. At an age where she is a sponge to those around her, at the salon Lucy is hearing “how can we make you look better/younger/sexier” and is sublimely being told that what she is born with isn’t good enough. The same could be said for her watching me get ready. I have no logical response when she asks me why I put on eye liner. The one time I told her “because that’s what society dictates I do” didn’t go over well. Eventually I will be the one to teach her how to subtly apply make-up and how to do her hair, but when she’s at an older age when she can comprehend more.

Looking back on my daughter’s question, I truly believe she does not understand what pretty is or care about being pretty, at least not in the materialistic sense. She knows people call her pretty but people also call her a goofball or silly. She does not care about being pretty, what she cares about is making people happy or smiling, like most toddlers she wants a positive response. She cares about being pretty because she wants the positive reinforcement from above said relative. And that worries me. I don’t want her to feel as if she’s pleasing someone by being pretty. I also don’t want her to try to be pretty. I want her to be…well…her. I want her to wear whatever makes her happy (as long as it’s weather appropriate). I want her to curl her hair because she likes the way the ringlets bounce. I want her to do what makes her happy not her relative. Maybe that’s asking too much of a toddler but I feel if I don’t lay the groundwork for it now, it will only become more difficult or a full problem when she’s older.

I’m also hopeful that she doesn’t care about her physical appearance. This conclusion is backed by the fact that she wears her pants backwards, isn’t bothered by food in her hair and will wear the same shirt every day no matter how it smells or the stains that are on it.

The problem, of course, will be dealing outside people or even relatives. How can I explain to them that they are enabling society’s negative self-images? Can I simply say: I do not mind you telling my daughter that she is pretty but I do mind when that’s all you say to her. Instead of saying her dress is pretty how about it is fancy? Or sparkly? Instead of telling her she’s pretty tell her she’s funny or adventurous or silly.

Society and media is going to do everything to convince my daughter that she needs the perfect body, perfect hair, perfect everything. I will be doing everything to convince her that she is enough, that being beautiful inside is more important than being beautiful outside. I will do everything to show her how immaterial materialism is. I know I’m going to have to fight it on big level, I don’t want to have to fight it on the intimate level of relatives.

I will do my best to show my daughter that asking “Am I pretty” is the wrong question and instead she should be asking “Am I good person”. I was prepared for that. I just didn’t think I would have to be prepared by the time she turned 3.

9

Nine years ago my life changed. There is definitely a line (or a day, if you will) that separates my life into the “Before” and the “After”. That line is May 18. It is my sobriety birthday.

Nine years ago today I voluntarily checked myself into out-patient rehab. I had no idea what I was in for and I had no idea that I was going to be labeled an alcoholic. My psychiatrist had said I had “alcohol dependency”. In my 22 year old mind, this did not qualify as alcoholism, merely a preference for alcoholic beverages over non-alcoholic beverages. I was dumbfounded to learn that alcohol dependency and alcoholism are one and the same.

My life “Before” is a blur of drunken nights and regrets. It is full of uncomfortable memories and awkward nights. But it probably isn’t what you imagine when you picture an alcoholic. I was not a person who drank daily but rather one that when I did drink, I drank heavily. There was rarely a time when I drank that I didn’t black out. It wasn’t until I was in rehab that I realized that isn’t the norm. I had gone through college believing that everyone blacked out when they drank and I was never concerned that I didn’t remember the night before. My ignorance was over whelming.

I had my first drink at age 15, the summer before I would enter my freshman year of high school. It was a beer and it was disgusting. I remember being told, “The more you drink, the less gross it’ll taste.” I couldn’t handle it so my friend gave me a Zima. (Does anyone else remember Zimas? Those were only good if you put in a Jolly Rancher…) I don’t remember how much I drank that night but I remember feeling cool and part of the “in-crowd”. I remember believing that drinking was going to make me popular. This theme continued all throughout high school. I held onto the belief that the more I drank, the more ‘impressive’ my drinking abilities were, the more popular I would be. As it was, it turns out it didn’t make me popular, just a drunken mess.

College was worse. My depression and anxiety were at an all-time high (or low, depending on how you look at it) and so I drank to cope. Still, I wasn’t a daily drinker. I wasn’t your stereotypical alcoholic that you see in movies or on television shows. I drank Thursday night (or Thirsty Thursday as we referred to it in college), Friday night and Saturday night. I drank three nights a week just like all of my friends. I didn’t think it was a big deal. I didn’t black out three nights a week. I did black out at least one night a weekend, though, again thinking it was the norm. As I got older and my depression got worse, I would drink a glass or two of wine on Friday nights to wash down Dramamine. This ensured that I would sleep deep and not have to deal with the real world for at least twelve straight hours. If I thought this was strange, I didn’t have the mental ability to think upon it.

By the time I checked into rehab at 22, I had reached the end of my capacity to care. I was more depressed than I had ever been and wanted to quit. I didn’t necessarily want to commit suicide, I just wanted to quit my life. I wanted to wake up with a clean slate and no past. I wanted a new life. Thankfully, my rehab team knew exactly what I needed.

I would spend 28 days (week days, out-patient rehab doesn’t meet on the weekends) learning how to re-live. I would spend 8 hours a day, five days a week, learning how to be a human without alcohol. I would learn how to function sober. I would learn how to deal with my past demons and how to cope with future ones. I would learn to accept my alcoholism and how to be an alcoholic in recovery. The things I learned nine years ago in rehab I have used daily ever since. There was nothing I learned in recovery that wasn’t and isn’t still relevant. The women who worked with me along with my psychiatrist easily saved my life and I will forever be grateful.

My life in the “After” (wow that sounds morbid), has not been easy but it has been worth it. When I started out, I attended AA and NA (Narcotics Anonymous) on a regular basis. I learned the Steps and I vented about life without alcohol and dealing with people who can have alcohol. While I understand that The Program is supposed to be helpful and a tool necessary for recovery, I stopped going to meetings when I was roughly 9 months sober. The town where I was attending meetings was small, you saw the same group of people at every meeting. There really wasn’t any anonymity and it was not a healthy environment. I believe that had I continued to attend meetings, I would not have stayed sober. I admired people who work the steps and have a sponsor but I also believe that The Program only works if you have a healthy environment to work it. I did not so I got out.

More or less, I have done 9 years of sobriety by myself. My parents have been a huge help but as they aren’t alcoholics they don’t completely understand. My brother and sister-in-law have also been huge helps, especially my sister-in-law who lets me vent whenever I need to. The most important thing my support system has done is help me celebrate my accomplishments. My parents sent me a gift when I was six months sober. (They also attended support meetings for family members of alcoholics through my rehab program.) They helped me celebrate annually my sobriety birthdays. They realize that I have reached large milestones and accomplishments and they validate me which means more than they will ever know.

My husband met me when I was four years sober. He never knew the “Before” me (thankfully). This means he doesn’t quite grasp how big of a deal it is that I have gone nine years without a drop of alcohol. He doesn’t know what a mess I was while I was drinking or how awful my depression and anxiety were (turns out, anti-depressants don’t work when you drink on them). He only knows the “After” me and therefore he doesn’t see what an accomplishment nine years of sobriety is. He doesn’t help me celebrate, in fact, he has never remembers my sobriety birthday. It hurts me and saddens me but at the same time I understand why he doesn’t understand. It is comforting knowing he only knows this me, the "After" me, and I like knowing he doesn't realize how far I've come because than he doesn't realize what a mess I was in the "Before". 

My life was not easy and my life will never be easy. Every day I wake up I am an addict and every night I go to sleep an addict. Hopefully, every night I will go to bed sober and wake up without being hung over. My life from age fifteen to twenty-two is a blur of drunken nights and many regrets that I have yet to make peace with. I feel strong in my recovery but that doesn’t mean I will stay sober and thinking I will is the first step towards relapse. But as great as my fear is of relapsing it is miniscule in comparison to my fear that my children will become addicts.

Every time my daughter chugs her milk (just like I used to at her age), I worry she’s already showing addict tendencies. Every time my son tells me he likes the taste of medicine, I worry he’s already showing addict tendencies. My children may be young (7, 3 and 5 months) but I constantly worry about what their future holds. I constantly worry that my children are already addicts and just need to take that first sip to become active addicts.

I will never hide the fact that I’m an alcoholic from my children, or anyone for that matter. It’s not something I boast of but it’s also not something I want to hide. I am surviving my disease to the best of my ability and hopefully I will keep surviving one day at a time. I just hope and pray and wish on every star that my children won’t have to fight this disease because more often than not, the disease wins, the disease is always there, waiting to overcome you and swallow you whole.

Nine years of sobriety. Nine years of fighting battle after battle, knowing I will never win the war, rather all I can hope for is a continuous draw. I was always be an alcoholic, the best I can hope for is to be a recovering alcoholic. And while I stay in recovery, I plan on educating my children to the point that they are vomiting out information on the disease and scared out of their minds to take a drink for fear of being an addict itself.

I’d like to say nine years went by fast and that it was easier than I thought it would be but that would be a lie. Nine years of sobriety have not been easy and I don’t expect it to get easier.  But being sober allows me to be a good mother, it allows me to be a good wife, it allows me to be a good human. It helps me manage my depression and anxiety. And guess what? When I’m sober, I no longer wish I had a different life. Instead, I love my life and the craziness that it is.

Nine years ago I stopped drinking and I haven’t started since. Go me.

Why I Hate My Body

Every day there is an article somewhere criticizing some woman's body. And every day there is an article somewhere written by a celebrity defending her body and/or her post-partum body. Here's my take, I hate my body and without realizing it, my body image issues affect my children more than they affect me. Why? I'm so glad you asked...

I have had body issues since fourth grade. FOURTH GRADE, that puts me at nine years old. A nine year old (in 1994) should only be concerned with Lisa Frank merchandise and four square rules. She should NOT be concerned with her body. I thought I was fat (I was chubby but not obese). Kids are cruel, at all ages sadly. I remember being in fifth or sixth grade and a boy asking if the reason I wore jeans with an elastic waistband was so that they would still fit me after lunch. My brother was extremely skinny which didn't help matters because he, too, mocked me frequently. I don't blame him, he was my older brother and would have found some reason to mock me. At least he teased me for something I could control...teasing me about the size of my nose or personality would have been awful.

Obviously it didn't get better from there. Middle school saw me becoming bulimic and anorexic. I didn't care what it was doing to my teeth or how it would effect my body long term (yes I was knowledgeable), all I cared about was being thin.This problem went with me to high school and, of course, college. I gained the Freshman Fifteen, basically through a diet of beer and cereal, and really hated how I looked. I was no longer a nice size 8 but a size 12 and couldn't handle looking myself in the mirror.

The thing with my eating disorder was that it was strictly about eating. I wanted to be skinny but didn't want to work out. I hate working out. HATE IT. I watch people run and lift and think there must be something clinically wrong with them. How can a person enjoy running until they can't breathe? It baffled me then and it baffles me today. The only kind of exercise I have ever enjoyed is dance. I love to dance, like ballet and jazz. I also love to swim. Swimming I get because it's not hard on the body and for some reason, it never seems like exercise. Either way, if I'm ever chased by a bear, I will probably end up dying after running for five minutes.

So I ate unhealthy. When I was in rehab, I was a size 5/6 and eating less than 500 calories per day. That's per day. People have eaten entire meals worth more than 500 calories. My diet was 20 almonds and three pieces of cherry licorice. Clearly, I was not healthy. BUT I was skinny and that's all that mattered.

As I grew up with my disorder, I obviously never saw anything wrong with it. It's my body and I could do with it what I wanted. Now that I'm a mom, things have changed. Suddenly, my body issues aren't just MINE, they are my kids' as well. Every time I look in a mirror and make a disgusted face, my kids see that. When I turn sideways and try to suck in my gut, my kids see that. When I eat unhealthy, my kids see that. And what happens when kids see you doing something? They imitate you, good or bad, they don't care because they just want to be like you.

As a parent, you are never alone in anything. There is always someone watching you, learning from you. Kids truly learn from what you do, not what you say. No matter how often I tell my kids to love themselves, love their bodies, eat healthy and exercise, it won't mean a thing if I don't live what I preach.

My kids are the best thing that every happened to me for a variety of reasons. One of those reasons is their ability to show me how I truly am. Every time Lucy imitates me, I see myself through her eyes. I do not want my daughter or son to grow up with body issues and the main step I can take to prevent them from low self esteem is to have high self esteem for me. By loving myself, by accepting myself, I can show them how to love and accept themselves.

There are many things I still want to teach my kids. One thing, one priority is to teach them to love themselves, that they are wonderful just the way they are. I also want them to be healthy (doesn't every parent?). In order for them to be healthy, I need them to eat right and exercise. While my kids are picky eaters, my son more than my daughter, they still manage to eat healthy. They eat healthy because now I eat healthy. They exercise daily (mainly they do cardio as they run away from me when I'm telling them to brush their teeth and get dressed) and they see me exercise (not daily, I haven't changed that much and when I do exercise I sure as hell am not running). The best thing I can do to ensure my kids are healthy is to keep myself healthy. And now I'm doing that. But never by running. Ugh.