When our 8-year-old daughter asks if she’s thin enough

lamentation + love poem, 05.23.19

there is a sudden sinking in my ribcage, a panic, a drowning feeling. Already it’s happening? Already? Already.

Deep breath.

Ours is a house where we talk of bodies in terms of their magic and their function, their beautiful usefulness, their innate wonder. We say things like, Look how strong you are! instead of, You’re so pretty.

That’s not to say we don’t pay compliments. We do. You look so elegant in that sweater. It really brings out the green in your eyes. When we talk about “beautiful,” we talk about the deep-down things that make real beauty, things that can’t be dressed up, that can only be nurtured enough to radiate out. Beauty with a capital B cannot be manufactured, and when it is real, cannot be hidden, either.

I am careful — so careful — to only speak of my own body in neutral or praising ways. I talk about how I love to bike and how grateful I am that I can do things like garden and dance awkwardly and lift them up for big hugs. I never make disapproving comments about my body or cast disapproving glances at myself in the mirror when they are in the room with me. How could I explain to them the conversations that sometimes take place when no one is around? I don’t fully understand them myself, and I’m…