My daughter, who is five, knows where babies come from. She knows what menstruation is. She knows the word “vagina” and we do not use any cute euphemisms for that part of her body.
My daughter sees my naked body all the time. This is partly because she doesn’t really get—or doesn’t really care—that I might like a little privacy when I’m dressing and undressing. But one of the reasons I don’t police my own privacy too much is because I want my daughter to know what a woman’s body looks like. I want her to know that my soft, roundish, un-waxed, basically healthy forty-one-year-old body is an acceptable shape for the female form to take. I don’t make my body a mystery to my daughter, because I do not want her body to be a mystery.
My daughter loves my body. Not too long ago, it was a source of nourishment. Once upon a time, it was home. It’s still a source of comfort. My daughter has no idea that my body should be anything other than what it is.
Since the day she was born, my husband and I have shaped our talk about her body to emphasize health, strength, and agency. When she was tiny, we praised her for being so big and strong. Now that she’s big and strong, we let friends, family, and strangers coo about her gorgeous eyes and amazingly long lashes, while we marvel at the powerful legs required to pedal a Big Wheel so fast. Our daughter’s body is not something for other people to look at and admire. It is hers, to nurture and use and enjoy.
I don’t watch Dance Moms, so I can’t say that the mothers on that show are living vicariously through their daughters, but I have watched enough clips to know that they have basically abdicated responsibility for their children and accepted the authority of their dance coach. Given that “reality” shows are designed to create conflict and controversy, I feel confident in suggesting that the dance coach has embraced her own monstrosity at the encouragement of the show’s producers. If there weren’t actual children being hurt by her desire to shock, she’d be a rather compelling character. But she is hurting actual children, and her apparent desire to teach these children that they are commodities is repellent—and particularly perverse, since little girls who have worked so hard to become incredible dancers should be able to take some pride in and ownership of their achievements.
The Vogue story is even more troubling to me, because I really don’t think either the author or the publication intended to be provocative. Ostensibly a mother’s own account of helping her daughter to achieve a healthy weight, it’s actually a profoundly upsetting portrait of a woman trying to pass on her own dysfunctional relationship with food and her own body. It’s made all the more harrowing by the daughter’s resistance, and the mother’s steely insistence that new-won thinness is a kind of existential rebirth:
For Bea, the achievement is bittersweet. When I ask her if she likes how she looks now, if she’s proud of what she's accomplished, she says yes... Even so, the person she used to be still weighs on her. Tears of pain fill her eyes as she reflects on her yearlong journey. “That’s still me,” she says of her former self. “I’m not a different person just because I lost sixteen pounds.” I protest that, indeed, she is different. At this moment, that fat girl is a thing of the past. A tear rolls down her beautiful cheek... “Just because it’s in the past,” she says, “doesn't mean it didn't happen.”
My point is this: If we don’t want anyone else to own our daughters’ bodies, we need to be the first ones to teach our daughters that their bodies belong to them. We can care for them. We can nurture them. We can help them learn to make good choices by presenting them with healthful options. But we can’t own them. We can’t shape them. And we sure as hell can’t live through them. And if we want our daughters to be strong and happy in their bodies, we need to show them how to do that by being strong and happy in our own bodies.
Sunday night, over supper, Ted, Frances, and I passed around the family journal and made some new year’s affirmations. The idea was to list three things we like about each other and ourselves, in the hopes that this practice might help us remember to be grateful for our family and be kind to one another. Frances didn’t quite grasp that we were going for abstract concepts, but—hey—she’s five. Here’s her list, with a translation below.
Frances and I went out for breakfast a couple days ago. When we were done eating, I sent her to pay our bill while I had my last cup of coffee. Our bill was $11.80. I gave Frances a twenty. She did not want to give me the change. We argued for a minute and then she said, shaking her head sadly, “Mom, you’ve taught me a very bad lesson.”
“What?” I asked.
“Well, “ she replied, “When you get money back at the cash register, you never give me any of it, even when I ask very nicely. So that makes me think that, when I get money back at the cash register, I shouldn’t give any of it to you.”
“Is that so?” I asked.
She sighed, and said, “I guess you’ve learned your lesson…” Then she gave her head another sad, slow shake.
“I have learned a lesson, Frances,” I assured her. “I’ve learned to never send you to the cash register again.”
“Mom!” Her head shot up. “That was not the lesson!”
“Well,” I said, “That’s the thing about lessons. People don’t always learn the lesson you want them to.”
Frances was not at all eager to learn that lesson, so we went back and forth for awhile. Ultimately, we arrived a resolution that was satisfactory to neither of us. I insisted that Frances give me the five, and then I asked her to count out four dollars for the tip. She kept the two dimes. Our waitress made out all right, I suppose, but Frances wasn’t thrilled with her meager haul, and I was left with the fear that, by letting Frances know that I am not willing to engage in a public wrestling match over 20 cents, I was encouraging her to explore just how far she can push me before I will engage in a public wrestling match.