What’s the thing you dread the most when summer comes around? The heat and humidity? The jacked-up A/C bill? The kids’ boredom complaints? How about shopping for a swimsuit – for a teenager?!
The debate isn’t just an external argument about whether or not she (the teenager) can/should have a bikini, but also the internal conflict of: Dang! I used to have that slim, beautifully curvy, soft, delicate (sexy?!) body. I’m her mother, for crying out loud!
Why am I admiring my 13 year old daughter’s physique with woeful envy?! That’s ridiculous. Or is it? Weren’t I just wearing a bikini? Wasn’t she just a baby?
She says I wear a black two-piece swimsuit, so why can’t she? Well, for one: mine has a skirt that covers my bum and a top that covers my belly (unless I raise my arms over my head.) She’s 13 and gets a new 2-piece, and I’m 45 and get to wear the same suit I’ve had for the past several summers? Hmph.
In fact, my wardrobe hasn’t changed much in the past two years. I rotate through the same four maxi skirts (3 black, 1 blue) and maternity pants and tops. Wait! What? Am I expecting? No. Well, who wears maternity clothes when they’re not even pregnant? That’s me. Why?! Because you can’t wear bulky sweaters to hide the bulky midsection in 110* summer heat – and normal clothes don’t fit because my body still looks pregnant.
I still have the belly that grew when I was going to have a baby. On April 1st, two years ago, about halfway through my pregnancy, we went in to find out if we were having a boy or a girl, and instead we found out there was no heartbeat. Unfortunately, it was not a cruel April Fool’s joke (nor were the two expired parking meter tickets we got that same day!) It was reality, and my heart, my mind and my body were all a big mess.
At age 42, I was “high-risk” and “advanced maternal age,” so the doctor said, if we were going to try again that we should get on it ASAP, because I wasn’t getting any younger. So, for the past two years, we tried and tried, every month, hoping it would take. No such luck. While we were “trying” to get pregnant, I wasn’t “trying” to lose the weight (the 40+ pounds that should have melted off while nursing my baby.) I hated my figure and the fact that NONE of my other clothes fit, so why wouldn’t I try to shed the pounds?
The leader of a support group I visited after my miscarriage said it is common for moms to carry the weight with them until they are emotionally ready to accept and release the loss – as if holding on to the weight was like holding on to the baby. At the time I didn’t believe her. But now, two years later, I think maybe she was right. And now, two years later, I think I’m finally ready to let go.
Losing the weight doesn’t mean I didn’t love my baby. Losing the weight means I get to love my body – and be grateful for the two beautiful children it carried to life. On top of that, losing the weight also means I could get rid of the maxi skirts and maternity clothes – and get a new swimsuit for myself AND my teenager!
So here it is again: Summer – my 45th swimsuit season. I may not be the slim (and sexy!) young woman I once was – but I am stronger and wiser – and I am still a mother of three, even if only two are here with me – one of them is in a dang bikini.