It’s mid-afternoon and I’m getting dressed for Cole’s doctor’s appointment.  Chessa is in the bathroom playing at my heels, pulling my cotton balls and hair spray out of the bathroom drawers.  Between brushing my teeth and asking her to please put mommy’s stuff back, I bounce a little on my toes and pull my jeans up over my hips. 

I suck in my breath to zip them and notice that when buttoned my belly looks even flabbier than it did in my leftover maternity sweatpants. 

I sigh. 

“Mommy’s chubby,” I say to my not-yet-two-year-old. 

“Mommy. Chubby,” she repeats. 

Dammit. 

Part of me wants to chuckle, but another part of me twinges.  I can’t talk like this in front of her.  I can’t let this be what she thinks women are supposed to do. 

Be critical of themselves.  Judge themselves by the number on the scale or the size in their jeans.  Roll around on the floor trying to get their jeans to stretch out in the butt while complaining about the piece of cheesecake she had for dessert last night. 

I’m not an overly critical person.  I have a fairly decent self-esteem. While I don’t always have the best sense of style, I think I look pretty good in the right make up and in clothes that fit.  But yet, when people compliment me, I get flustered and brush it off, always thinking that it’s not quite deserved. 

“You don’t look like you just had a baby,” I hear. 

And respond with “Oh, you should see me without a shirt on.” 

And I don’t think I’m alone.  A coworker has lost some weight – maybe 20 pounds, maybe more.  I’m bad at judging weight.  But the point is she looks fantastic. 

When I tell her that, she grimaces a little and says “Oh, thanks, I still have some work to do.” 

Why can’t women take compliments? 

Why can’t we say, “thank you!” and leave it at that? 

Why can’t we show our children, our daughters, that they can be proud of the way they look? 

I know there’s a fine line between being accepting of your body and a snot about it.  I know nobody likes the girl who thinks she’s pretty and says so.  But, as a mother, having a child who is critical of her looks is one of my greatest fears about raising a daughter. 

I know it will be a while before she asks to put on my blush.  It may be years before she sees the scale in the bathroom as anything other than something to step on and off of repeatedly.  But the studies that show how early girls are faced with eating disorders, teasing from kids at school and low self esteem scare the bejezus out of me. 

I don’t want my 5-year-old being afraid to put on a swimsuit.  I don’t want my 7-year-old asking to shave her legs.  I don’t want my 10-year-old only eating broccoli for dinner because she’s on a diet.  And I don’t want my 12-year-old wearing more makeup to school than Dolly Parton does on stage. 

How do I teach her that it’s not about fitting into a size 4 pair of jeans or what the number on the scale says?  How do I teach her that while Mommy puts on make up before she leaves the house, Chessa doesn’t need it to look pretty?

How do teach her that being friendly, smart and fun are more important in choosing and being friends than what a person looks like?  How do I teach her that going outside to play, going for walks with me or swimming and riding bikes with her father is a great way to get exercise so she doesn’t need to worry about eating the occasional piece of chocolate cake. 

How do I teach her the fine art of accepting a compliment? 

In all the ways that my bad habits could influence her, this one may be the one that scares me the most.  How do I teach her the difference between wanting to be healthy and wanting to be skinny, when I don’t always understand it or practice it, myself?

I’m gonna talk about sports for just a second, mmkay? I know, this is a baby blog. I’m not supposed to talk about sports.  If you wanted to talk x’s and o’s you could talk to your husbands.  But, well, even though I find major league baseball about as entertaining as cleaning my base boards, it’s my blog and with a high school football coach as a husband sports are a big part of my life, so I’m gonna go there and talk sports. 

Did you all hear about the pitcher from the Detroit Tigers who wasthiseffingclose to throwing a perfect game, only have a batter called safe when in fact the ball beat the foot to the bag?  No?  OK, well then go read the article and then come back. 

So, Armando Galarraga, is within inches of achieving one of the biggest accomplishments of his professional career.  And then Jim Joyce makes the wrong call at first base and costs the pitcher his perfect game.  That’s bad, right?  Really bad.  And the perfect opportunity for a shit storm from Galarraga, his team, his coach and fans.  They could have bashed him in the media and would have gotten away with it.  They could have thrown temper tantrums for weeks over the missed chance to be in the record books.  To have THAT FEELING of accomplishing something so monumental ripped from their grasp. 

But they didn’t.  Joyce, the umpire, immediately and sincerely apologized when he realized his mistake.  Galarraga and his team accepted and provided Joyce with support in the following days.  And they moved on. 

It was a perfect display of sportsmanship. 

I go to a lot of football games.  I sit in the stands with parents and fans and my dad.  More times than not one side of the field is complaining about the call on the field.  I’ve done it too. I’ve yelled “Are you BLIND” with the rest of them.  You can’t possibly understand how they missed an illegial block or didn’t call pass interference (are ya’ll impressed with my use of football terms?)   Their calls can mean the difference between a touchdown and field goal.  Can cost a game.  Can impact a season. 

But when we start constantly blaming and badgering officials, it burns my ass a little.  Maybe it’s because it’s just a game.  Maybe because it’s part of life.  You practice hard and you do everything right and the call still doesn’t go your way.  And so you man up, and you go back to the line of scrimmage and you go again.  You don’t stand up and stomp your feet and yell.  You don’t kick the sand and walk off the field saying “we would have won that game if it wasn’t for the officials.” In doing so, you’re forgetting about all the passes you dropped, all the blocks you missed and the quarterback who was just quicker than your secondary. (Seriously, I’m killing myself with these football terms.  Craig would be so proud.  Or not.  Because I might not be using them right.) 

The situation I referred to earlier is a perfect teachable moment for athletes and coaches everywhere.  Sometimes the call doesn’t go your way.  Sometimes you miss an opportunity because of it.  But you get up, you move on and you go again. 

Now, maybe if more officials admitted their mistakes there could also be world peace?