When did we women decide that everyone else should come first? Who proclaimed it our job to guarantee the pleasure of others and settle for whatever crumbs fall off their plates?
I’ve come to call this compulsion the Chicken Back Syndrome: preparing a chicken dinner, encouraging our husbands and children to take the best pieces—the breast, thighs and legs—and insisting that we actually like the chicken back best. Somehow, without question, everyone believes we’re just crazy enough to prefer bones and gristle. After awhile, we even convince ourselves that those tiny scraps of meat buried between the ribs are worth the effort.
By reaching for the chicken back all the time we women train ourselves to ignore our own desires. At the same time, we teach those around us that we don’t matter, that our satisfaction comes solely from seeing the people that we love enjoy the spoils.
This was a lesson I learned very early on at the knee of my mother: it was poor form to “put someone else out” by insisting on what I really wanted. I believed that nice girls reached for the smallest piece, or took what was offered them, and kept their yaps shut. Food, space, attention, it didn’t matter which.
When my children were little they had no sense that I existed separate and apart from them, especially after their father and I got divorced. My world revolved around caring for them. There were no boundaries, no closed doors. They slept in my bed until they were practically 37. They argued with me while I sat on the toilet. They ruled the TV, and the weekend agenda. Nag me long enough, and I would drop what I was doing to satisfy their whims. When I refused them their wishes in favor of my own, they smelled my guilt, and took advantage of it. Such is the nature of that beast.
Like my mother before me, I had come to believe that if I went along with what everybody else wanted, if I sacrificed in the name of being a good wife or mother, if I denied that I had a preference, if I put away my desires like an old sewing project, then I would earn my family’s undying love. Truth be told, I didn’t believe I was lovable simply for being the woman that I was.
Instead of reaping affection, here’s what happened:
- I learned that teenagers and undying love don’t actually go together in the same sentence.
- My kids developed a sense of entitlement that won’t serve them well in the world.
- I became resentful and anxious because I’d relinquished control.
- I gained a lot of weight because, with no room for romance, I made love to cake.
So, it’s no wonder I forgot who I was and what I wanted after a few years of that. It was hard to remember I liked breast meat after eating chicken back.
Eventually I decided that, as a woman, it was never going to be my turn, unless I TOOK it. I realized that a middle-aged, overweight, anxious, resentful, passive aggressive mama with no life just isn’t sexy.
So, for some reason I no longer remember, I went off on a solitary bike trip to the heart of France. I met fabulous people, couples who’d been married forever and were still mutually enthralled. Inspired, I came home with a vision of a life I knew I could love, and I screwed up the courage to go after my desires. Believe me when I say, I faced plenty of guff.
Little by little, I began to invest in my self, pamper my self, because somehow I sensed that no one would love me until I could. That’s how I met and married a man who treats me like a goddess, and in the process, learned how to RECEIVE, not just give.
There are a few expressions I’ve run into a lot lately, geared mostly to business, but completely applicable to what we’re talking about here:
1. People will only be willing to invest in you to the degree that you’re willing to invest in yourself.
2. You don’t get what you’re worth; you get what you negotiate.
Negotiate the small things, and the big things will follow.
And tonight? Place the chicken breast on your plate, and the leg, then eat the whole damned thing. It’s your job to teach your kids that other people—particularly you— matter.
A woman who takes care of herself first, who recognizes that no one is happy if mama ain’t happy, is sexy as hell.
Ann Sheybani is a writer, coach, and speaker. She teaches women how to say no, create healthy boundaries so they can enjoy others without being sucked dry, speak their truth and still be loved, and uncover those dreams long thought dead. Fifty-year-old Sheybani has two children, aged 24 and 21, and four step-children, the youngest 20, the eldest 32. You can read more about her and her work at http://annsheybani.com