Mum In The Mirror

Rachel Derby - 28 May 15

It was one of those sit back and watch moments as a mother. My two girls playing with their Dad. Running around post-bath naked, giggling, hanging off his neck as he swung them around. Soft, new lily-white skin. Little folds, little tummies. However, sitting there I was equally filled with happiness and sadness. Happiness for how carefree they are about the world, themselves, their appearance. Sadness because I couldn’t help but wonder when that could all change.

I was 15 when I entered the world of eating disorders and body image issues. It haunted me on and off until my late twenties. Having prayed for boobs upon my flat-chested body, everything changed in the summer of ’94, when God indeed came down to earth overnight and slapped a massive pair of knockers on me. I went back to school that autumn looking completely out of proportion; big boobs, rounded tummy, no hips or bottom. I stuck out like a top-heavy sore thumb and there began the unwanted attention and hatred of my body shape.

I was watching the rise of the amazonian supermodel Cindys and delicate super-waif Kates. I was neither. I had no role models to aspire to or feel “normal” by. No-one to empower me – boys generally made fun of me. I felt like a joke. So I tried desperately to change my figure, which ultimately became the quest for a perfect figure.

That goal of perfection has influenced and tainted my life for years. It’s only now in my mid 30’s I come to realise that striving for the perfect body has consumed and wasted so much of my life. I am equally bitter as I am sad when I think about it. What if I could have saved myself?

That’s a question that will always haunt me. And it makes me vow to save my girls from the same fate.

I get that society has always had its standards of beauty. But what I feel is so different today is the extent to which we live our lives around those ideals, especially younger generations. Normal concerns about image have become complete obsessions. The decade we live in is full of boys and girls as young as 5 conscious of their looks and pondering their first diet.

The media continuously bombards us with how we should look, subjecting children to the same identikit bodies – all flat sun-kissed tummies, pert booty and white teeth; probably incredibly photoshopped. Quality reality TV convinces them that every natural feature they have is wrong. Tabloids sensationalise changes in body weight. Social media allows the opportunity to become famous overnight and crave attention in every selfie posted.

Last year The Children’s Society published The Good Childhood Report. Out of 11 countries, our children ranked a poor 9th for happiness and wellbeing.  And the main concern? Worries about their appearance. People now say that children at primary school can already begin to suss out differences in body shape and how they can be judged in different ways because of it. That could be my eldest soon – the very thought of it breaks my heart.

One thing I am really conscious of, is the part that I play. Parents are one of, if not, the main influence on their children when it comes to body image. How we reflect our own body hang ups is a massive player.  I try to remember that they will take to heart what I say about body appearance; mine or anyone else’s. They will notice if I diet, exercise obsessively or have a moan about my reflection. Just the odd little fly away comment I didn’t realise I’d said, could just settle somewhere inside their heads. I will be their first role model and probably the one with most influence. That alone scares the hell out of me.

Of course, the industry is trying to change with more diverse models and plus sizes. But I question whether that is really the solution? The media isn’t suddenly going to change its game plan in fuelling today’s visually obsessed world. Maybe its down to society to move on. A massive ask but nevertheless that’s really what I hope for my girls. That they will have the strength to look past all of the crap and not see their image as the defining thing that makes them who they are. (I also hope that lovely Taylor Swift might one day stand on stage in her sparkly little number and tell her fans what it’s really like having to maintain a media-obsessed body. All whilst tucking into a bag of pork scratchings.)

It’s a cliche yes, but I want them to appreciate what their bodies can do and know those bodies will change over time and that’s OK. Be more immune to the contagious chit chat we can all have criticising our bodies and maybe be the ones that encourage a different mindset. I want them meet new people and see the stories they have to tell rather than critiquing their figure on first glance.

I’m not sure where to start helping any of this to happen of course. There’s no big plan. But I will teach them to be kind to themselves. I’ll encourage them to be active and to run and swim because that rush of endorphins feels as great mentally as it does physically. I’ll ask their Dad to teach them to surf so they can face their fears and feel pride in overcoming them. I will encourage them to write from their hearts rather than communicate through a selfie.

I’ll show them that denying yourself desert after a beautiful meal out is plain miserable. And that men are nowhere near as worried about body fat as we think. And that its pretty damn normal for women to have hairy toes, annoying moustaches, lumpy bottoms and the odd hair sprouting out of a nipple.

And if they are blessed with big boobs, then they will have a role model. They will have me.

However here’s the sticking point. That big wholesome agenda – it’ll be hard for me. Because it’s going to mean teaching myself to really believe it too. Wholeheartedly.

There is a blessing to getting older…I don’t hate my body anymore. There’ll always be something engrained deep inside me. But now I care far more about my health and fitness than I do my measurements. Motherhood has given me a certain acceptance of my body. For my girls, I am happy being just how they see me – I’m their Mum who is warm and safe with a wibbly tummy that is hilariously funny to blow raspberries on. It actually feels quite nice. To start letting go of all the negativities, be more gentle on myself. And to keep my end of the bargain when they are poking and jiggling with such innocence, acceptance and love for me. How can I dispute that?

I wish I could go back to younger Rachel. Rachel aged 17. I’d buy her a drink (not the triple whisky and coke she drank at the time mind you). I would tell her she was enough. She needn’t have suffered for that perfection, because it was already there.

Of course I can’t do that. But I will never stop telling my girls. All of it and more.

Rachel Derby

Writer of stuff, daydreamer and lover of Paraguayan margaritas. Rachel lives in Winchester with her husband Michael and their girls May (10) and Rosalie (7). Supporting amazing teachers and amazing children.

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