The Choice

I saw the look she gave me when I got out of the shower. Her four year old eyes giving me the once over and her nose scrunching in a little bit of confusion. Was it the hair she doesn't have yet, the boobs that she knows make milk for brother, or the excessive skin and fat that hand like its own being that I have to carry around, tuck in and sinch tighter to wear my clothes? I saw her face and I had to decide in that little moment how to respond. Do I explain my body changes? Do I point out how much it's different from hers? I chose to say nothing. I grabbed my towel and dried off with her right there - even as my stomach hung loose while I dried my legs. She smiled, loving that I leave my body oil in her room and we get to share it - it smells like cookies, she says. I tried to remember that in her eyes I'm beautiful - she tells me every time I wear pink or a dress - and I always will be until I tell her otherwise. When I wish away body parts in front of her, complain of everything being tight, fail to receive a complement, she'll know that my normal body is not normal and when hers starts to look like mine, normal will be hated and I just can't have that.