Learning to love the word squishy

If there is one image I could rid myself of it would be that thin is beauty. I have always wanted to be thin and slender, slightly muscular with no flab, certainly no cellulite--the kind of body you see on a cover of a magazine as you stand in line at the grocery store--Madonna, Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie. I confess that even though I am an educated woman, and even though I have spent years reading and studying women's cultural history, and even though I know about airbrushing photos, mainstream media still influences how I feel about my body.

But then I had children, and while I still long for the superstar figure, my children delight in the squishiness of my body. I used to just smile at them when they would say so tenderly and lovingly, "I love your body, Mama. It is so squishy." They are too young to know that while I smile on the outside, I still long for the thin, slender body on the inside.

But now I am learning to love the word squishy, allowing my children's delights to redeem a part of me that desperately needs redeeming. Squishy has become a synonym for Mama in my house and I am beginning to like it--a good sign that I am starting to accept that my superstar body is a place of comfort, security, and refuge. My flabby arms, a home for my children.

Of course I still have my doubts, but I notice the silent shift that is happening inside. I smile more when they comment on my squishy arms. Squishiness is beauty, I hear myself saying and believing. And for images of beauty, I keep reminding myself of the Madonnas of the Renaissance--curvy, lushy, fleshy, and full, and a bit flabby. If only I could grocery shop in a museum.