Now she is 9

Earlier this year, my baby girl turned 9.

She is a force of nature. A force to be reckoned with. An unstoppable force pressing and pushing against an unmovable object. The eighth wonder of the world. She is headstrong, sensitive, unyielding and tender all in the span of an hour. Within the same day, I am the best mommy in the world and also [eye roll, hip cocked, head to the side, foot stomp] the single person most ruining her life. She is 9 going on 19.

There are days I am in awe of her and just as many days that I do. not. know. what to do with her.

At some point on the way to turning 9, she had a big growth spurt that stretched her legs to new lengths. This spring, when the weather started to turn warm, she pulled out her sporty shorts from last year -- the running shorts style, elastic waist with the unders built in. When they were new, they fit her fine, but now a year later, they barely cover her bum.

"Are those too small?" I ask when she tries them on. "Do you need new shorts?"

"No," she says, then pauses and looks down at herself. "Well, maybe."

So we head to Target, source of all things, to look for new running shorts. I point to shorts after shorts in the girls section, only to watch her shake her head at each adorable pair. She tells me she doesn't want the short kind, but instead is looking for the longer, basketball style shorts. You know, she tells me, like what Junius wears.

By now, I suppose I should expect the opposite of whatever I expected when it comes to Pippi. There's so much about her that I don't understand and can't predict. Often it seems she chooses the contrary answer just for sport.

"Why do you want to dress like your brother?" I ask, still somehow surprised.

She has her answer ready: "Because his shorts have pockets."

* * *

Growing up, I was an "outfit" kind of girl. I loved dressing up, for play and for real. There was no throwing on whatever was clean -- each night, I would plan my outfit for the next day. As soon as I turned 16, I got a job at the Limited Express (hello, late 80s) to support my shopping habit. I rarely wore jeans to school, owned very few t-shirts with writing on them. I was a lot of things, but sporty wasn't one of them.

When Pippi was born, once I recovered from the shock of having a girl, I reveled in all the adorable tiny outfits. Baby girls get so many fun options that just don't exist for baby boys. She was like the best dress-up doll I ever had. Once she was old enough to dress herself, she quickly exerted her own opinions over her wardrobe -- but the results were so spectacular that I couldn't say no. In fact, I bought even more colorful and patterned and sparkly pieces to give her better options to mix into her preschool fashionista fabulousness.

After she completed kindergarten, however, she drifted away from the adorable outfits and the layers of ruffles and accessories toward a daily uniform of sporty shorts and oversized t-shirts paired with Nike socks and running shoes. At first I pushed back, continued buying matching sets of patterned shirts and skirts or sweet, twirly dresses. Eventually I realized I was wasting my money and waging a losing battle.

One day, as I looked at her in all her sporty glory, it dawned on me that she was comfortable -- literally and emotionally -- just the way she was. Why was I trying to force her into the self-conscious fashion rules that still plague me? Did I really want to be the one to teach her to worry about how she looks?

I made a conscious decision to let go and let her be in charge of her wardrobe. We bought leggings and running shorts, no skirts or outfits. If it wasn't church or a special event, I stayed out of her closet. Which brings us back to buying sporty shorts at Target...

* * *

Pockets. She had me at pockets.

I might not understand wanting to wear basketball shorts and oversized t-shirts, but hell yeah I understand the desire for pockets. My favorite dresses, skirts, even pajama pants and one chambray tunic all have pockets. Compliment any woman on her dress and her first response, if it has pockets, will be to smile broadly and announce to you, "Thanks! It has pockets!" Through the magic of Twitter I recently learned of one woman who had pockets in her wedding dress, which almost made me want to get married again because that sounded so brilliant.

So off we went in search of basketball-style shorts with pockets, only to discover that those sons of bitches don't put pockets in girls' basketball shorts.

And that is how I found myself shopping with my daughter in the boys' section at Target, where she selected two pairs of knee-length shorts with pockets that look so exactly like her brother's shorts that I had to write her initials on the tags so that I know they're hers when they come through the wash.

* * *

When Hillary Clinton metaphorically broke the glass ceiling at last year's Democratic Convention and when Elizabeth Warren persisted in spite of those working to silence her and when women (and men) all over the world marched together this January, they were fighting for women on a very grand and global scale. I won't pretend that one trip to Target deserves the same significance.

But I'm more than a little proud of my fierce daughter who is not deterred by the fact that some clothing designer thinks girls don't need pockets or even by the fact that her mom wishes she would wear some of those pretty skirts shoved in the back of her dresser drawer. With any luck, she and I will continue to connect over clothes with pockets and maybe discover some other things along the way that will bind us closer together. I'm trying to remind myself to listen more and love better, even as she pushes me in ways I don't understand.

So, you be you, Pippilotta. Be patient with me. And I'll do my best to keep up.

Take That, Flabby Arms

Some unsolicited advice...

If you're going to do a kick-boxing / circuit-training class where the muscly, tattooed instructor makes you do push-ups, tricep dips, bicep curls, boxing and other things you haven't done in ages and ages (or like, ever), be sure that the following tasks are not on your list for the next couple of days:

• using a hair-dryer
• lifting your children into a shopping cart
• loading flats of drinks into your Costco cart
• carrying groceries into your house
• bringing your luggage downstairs

I'm just sayin'.

By the way, that image isn't me. But a girl can dream, right?

Now I'm taking my tired arms (and a lot of ibuprofen) to the beach for a few days to recover. Hope to be back on a better blogging schedule when I return.

A Rainbow of Opportunity

I'm the first to admit that I cry easily at the slightest thing -- sappy commercials, children's books, the last 10 dramatic minutes of a cheesy movie I've never seen. But even I was surprised to find myself choking back tears at a modern dance recital last month.

It was the Rainbow Dance Company's annual concert -- our friend and neighbor is the director and was also dancing in the show, so my husband and I took both kids to the Saturday matinee. The Rainbow Dance Company, a multi-age modern dance group, includes girls and women (and a few men) ranging from age 9 to 50+.

When the first group of dancers took the stage, Junius and Pippi were in awe, mesmerized by the sounds, the lights and the dancing. I watched the dancers -- and watched my children watching them -- and felt my eyes well up. Here was a group of (in this case) women and girls representing a range of ages, colors, shapes, sizes and ability who were all part of the same beauty, working together to make something amazing. They were so in control of their bodies, so comfortable with themselves, so powerful on the stage. I wanted to be like them, to be one of them, wanted my daughter to grow up in a group like that.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to have that kind of confidence at age 16. To feel so strong in my own skin, to mentor a 9-year-old girl who is holding her own among the "grown-ups,"  to dance side-by-side with a 55-year-old woman who is every bit as beautiful and athletic as the younger girls. What an incredible opportunity to see the world this way, to see being a woman this way.

Among our friends and neighbors, we know moms who are marathoners and triathletes, teachers and lawyers, architects and accountants, and more. I love that my daughter will have so many strong women role models to look up to as she gets older. And I love that my son will have always seen women in all these roles, so that maybe (just maybe) it won't occur to him that there is anything unusual about it. But taking Juni and Pip to that modern dance concert was a rare opportunity to see one of our mom friends in action doing non-mom-related work.

I don't know if either of my kids will want to study dance (although Pippi does adore a good ballet outfit and Junius had a blast at Arts Together's Super Hero camp last summer), but I do know this: as they grow up, I want them to be part of a group that makes them feel strong, that allows them to see the possibilities ahead, that connects them with diverse communities. And in the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how many years of dance lessons I'm going to need before I can win an invitation to the Rainbow Dance Company for myself.

Photo by Matt Kesterson from Arts Together

Maybe I Will Be a Runner After All

"Look, Mommy, look! Like you, Mommy, like you! I runnin' jus like you!"

Wow. Never expected I'd hear my daughter say those words. But that's just what Pippi said on Sunday as she trotted down our street, beaming: "I runnin' jus like you!" She was so proud of herself. But not nearly as proud as I was of myself.

I'm not a runner. Never have been. Never really wanted to be. But my husband tricked me into it. I'd been complaining about not getting any exercise and not having any time to get exercise, so he (being a runner himself) decided that I just hadn't given running a fair try. My response was that if I was going to become a runner, I'd need some cool gear -- that Sony Walkman collecting dust in the closet just wasn't proper motivation. Then, bam. he called my bluff -- iPod for my birthday -- and suddenly I had to follow through.

After consulting one of my BFFs from high school (who I would have voted least-likely-to-become-a-runner right along with me but who now runs races with her husband and three boys), I decided to try out the Couch-to-5K running plan. The gist of the plan is that you start out running in short increments (60 seconds at first) and walking in between, then build up to longer running stretches over nine weeks until you can run for 30 minutes (or 3 miles).

As of yesterday, I'm on Day 2 of Week 3. Ahem. My birthday was in December. [Short pause while you count the number of weeks between December and April.] So yeah, I started, then it got too cold, so I started over, then got sick, started over, got busy, blah blah blah. But I keep trying, starting over at Week 2. And as of yesterday, I'm father along on the plan than I've ever been -- and I've probably run more cumulative minutes in the past five months than I did in the past five years added together. So it's small, but it's still progress.

I'm running to be healthy. And I'm running to be thin. And, let's be honest, I'm running to show my husband that I can meet his challenge (thanks for knowing me so well, my love). But I realized on Sunday that I'm also doing it so that my daughter (and my son) will see running and exercise and (dare I say) athleticism as a regular part of being a girl.

I'm still not sure I'll ever be a capital-R Runner -- I'm not training for an actual race or dreaming of a marathon or anything. But seeing Junius and Pippi hopping up and down in the driveway to cheer me on as I make my loop past the house is all the motivation I need to keep on running.

My Body, Myself, My Daughter

When I was about 12 or 13 years old, we were visiting my grandparents on the Chickahominy River one summer. I vividly remember walking out onto the pier in my one-piece swimsuit, when my Nana saw me and declared, "Why, dahlin' -- look at you! You've got hips!"

In retrospect, I am certain that Nana meant it as a compliment. At the time, I was mortified. Horrified. Wanted to melt into a puddle and slide off into the river and sink deep down into the muddy bottom. At that age, I was self-conscious enough about my body and the effects of puberty (or lack of effects, in some areas) that the last thing I needed was to know that someone else was noticing me -- even if that someone was my grandmother who loved me very much.

Now, more than 20 years later, I'm still afraid that people might look at me in a swimsuit and critique what they see. The truth is that probably no one is paying that much attention to me and that I am my own worst critic.

But I'm trying hard to get over that -- after two babies, I'm starting to realize that I actually looked great in my 20s, so I trust that I'll think I looked good in my 30s when my 40-ish self is looking back at photos. That's the thought that motivates me to put on a bikini when I'm at the beach -- that, plus the fact that it makes my husband very happy to see me in one.

But what worries me even more than how I look is how my body-image issues might affect my daughter.

Right now, Pippi is roly-poly round and absolutely gorgeous -- her toddler belly pops out in front of her, she has tan-lines in the pudgy creases in her forearms and thighs, and every ounce of it is beautiful. She's also completely uninhibited (see photo -- she's preferred to be topless at the beach all week, too) and has no thoughts about what her body should and shouldn't be. I want so much to help her stay like that, to always believe that she is beautiful and that her body is exactly how it should be.

But given that I haven't managed to feel that way about myself in three decades -- and given all the forces around her that will shout about the need to be thin or have big breasts or look a certain way -- how do I teach her to hear a different, stronger voice inside her head?

I think it might start with me, my voice, and the voices of other people who love her. Maybe if her father and I and her grandparents and our friends all talk about being healthy and confident, then she'll have some defenses built up to fight against those other voices.

When she was a newborn, my dad would hold her and say to her, "You are SOOOOOOOO beautiful," in this sweet, sing-song voice. She always smiles at him when he says that, like she knows exactly what he means. Hopefully, when her Nanna and Nonna comment on her pre-teen body one day, she'll smile and say, "Thank you -- I think I look so beautiful, too."

Ready or Not, Here Comes the Swim Suit

Did I mention we're going to the beach this weekend? Can you tell I'm excited? It's going to be a lovely time, even if it means dealing with my body-image issues around swim wear.

That's fodder for a longer post when I have time to write about it, but suffice it to say that (like a lot of women) I'm less than confident about how I look in a swim suit -- especially after two babies. It's not that I think I look terrible, but there are plenty of things I would change.

One thought that helps me feel better is this photo. It was taken this same weekend beach trip four years ago. I was 35 weeks pregnant with Junius and could no longer wear my wedding bands or fit in a booth at a restaurant (no really, we had to wait until a regular table opened up). People up and down the beach were setting 911 on their phones because I was so huge it looked like I might go into labor at any moment. As it turned out, I stayed pregnant another seven weeks. Makes me tired just thinking about it.

Truthfully, being pregnant in a swim suit was strangely liberating. I love the big, round maternity belly -- it made me feel powerful ("I'm constructing an entire human being -- what are YOU doing?"). Plus it was the only time I didn't feel compelled to suck in my belly. In fact, I wore a bikini at the beach when I was (4 months) pregnant with Pippi and felt nearly exotic.

But given that I'm not pregnant this year, I'm dealing with the body I have. And no matter how many nips and tucks I'd like to take before heading out on the beach, at least I know I'm about 50 pounds lighter now than I was in that picture.