Miss Lola: What I Will Remember Most About You This Year

This year, after more than two years of carrying you on my back, on my hip, in my arms, or you trailing me like a pint-sized shadow, we split up for ten hours a day.
I started work and you started daycare. And we both blossomed. I rediscovered the joy of being valued for my brain rather than my ability to dispense peanut butter; and you discovered the new, fresh thrill of being loved by people other than those legally obliged to feed and water you for the next sixteen years.

I like going to work everyday. I like straightening my hair (on a daily rather than monthly basis); I like wearing makeup and looking cute in my professional worker-bee clothes; I like challenge and problem solving; and, little girl, I like getting paid!

But of all of these things that I like, what I love most, and will remember always about this year is this: you, delight shining in your eyes, open arms in the air, running towards me saying Mama! I miss you!

You do this every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday afternoon, when I pick you up from daycare. It is the best part of each and every workday. Instead of being together all the time – which wore both of us out, frankly – we celebrate our comings and goings. We celebrate each other. Well, actually you do. And with that, you remind me to do the same.

And now you give me this gift not just when I pick you up from daycare, but anytime we’ve been apart more than a few minutes:

when I go to pick up something while your father watches you (Mama I miss you! Buy milk?),
when you wake up suddenly in the night and I bring you to bed with me (Mama, I miss you. Sleep Mama bed?);
when you just wake up from your nap (or **ahem** I wake up from mine) (Mama I miss you. Good sleep).

This is what I will remember about this year, Lola. I miss you means I love you.

Mama Mondays and Fat Fridays

My dearest darlingest readers, I’m going to give you a little gift. It is called predicability. I’m implementing this fancy schmancy thing called an “editorial calendar”. (Oooooooh).

From now on, Mondays will be “Mama Mondays” and Fridays will be “Fat Fridays”.

Mondays will be all things parenting-related – and it is not just for mothers. (There just isn’t any day of the week that sounds cute with “parenting”.)

On Mama Mondays, I will offer tips on how to effectively parent without breaking the spirits of your children (mostly), and how to have a better time doing it. Or I may just weep and gnash my teeth. Or I may write about how much I love my children. This is true at least twelve hours a day. They sleep from seven to seven.

On Fat Fridays, I will write about all things related to body image, nutrition, self (and other!) acceptance, and the politics of fat. Fat Fridays will feature tips and musings on how to live with and love yourself, how not to be a fat-bigot (a sizeist – yes, there is an actual word for it!), and how to be healthy at any size. Including skinny. I’m not a sizeist, after all.

So, my dedicated readers, all three of you – that would me, myself, and I – who are desperately seeking Part 2 of “Does My Ass Look Fat in This Blog?”, you will find it and all its chubby sisters here every Friday.

Side note to my self- and blog-deprecating comment on the size of my readership: Actually, if you want your blog traffic to multiply by a factor of ten in just one day, post a picture of your ass. Results guaranteed.

Side note to side note: Tomorrow’s topic and pictorial will feature my breasts.

I jest. Maybe.

Does My Ass Look Fat in this Blog? (Or: The Challenges of a Positive Body Image in a World of Skinny Bitches and Low Rise Jeans) Part 1

This post started in weird place (no, not there!).

I was reading up on dating in the hopes that I will (a) one day do it and (b) do it reasonably well. There were many articles aimed at men advising them how to handle women. There were many articles aimed at women appraising them of things that make men want to flee, things you should never EVER ask a man, and things that frighten men (these were long lists).

An interesting theme and practical point of advice emerged from both sets of articles. Women should never ask a man “Does my ass look fat in these jeans?”, and, if asked, men should feign sleep/heart attack/blindness.

This struck me as odd and revealing, and my initial “wow – weird” reaction led me to really think about and question my assumptions and beliefs about body image.

This post is the first of a series on Women and Body Image that will explore these issues. We’ll laugh, we’ll cry, we’ll throw carrots.

Women And Body Image, Part 1

First, do women really ask their partners this?

I knew you were wondering, dear reader, so I conducted rigourous primary research to find out.

By ‘rigourous primary research’, I mean that I e-mailed ten women in my life to find out if they do in fact ask their men the infamous question: Does My Ass Look Fat in These Jeans?

Does My Ass Look Fat in These Jeans: The Survey

Method:
E-mailed ten women in my life to find out if they asked the men in their life: Does My Ass Look Fat in these Jeans?

The sample:
Ten women in my life. Not random, not representative. Go call the science police.

Results:
Of the ten women surveyed, nine women responded (90%). All those who responded were guaranteed anonymity. Heather Williamson of Surrey, BC, (e-mail me for her address, social insurance number and FICO score), was the only laggard who failed to answer.

Results:
Of the nine prompt and shockingly beautiful women who answered, three (33%) do indeed ask if their ass looks fat; four (44%) do not; and two (22%) waffled.

One woman, the aforementioned Heather Williamson of Surrey, BC, did not respond at all, but that is only because of a profound deficiency in her character. She also has a lazy eye.

Transcript of Responses:
A1.
I ask my female friends that all the time.
I have never asked my male flatmate that because I don’t need honesty that badly.
I have asked boyfriends. They go very pale.

A2.
No, I don’t ask that. I honestly don’t care. I occasionally make a comment about someone being pretty, and just in a factual way, and my husband looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

A3.
I asked my husband this one time. He gave me his honest answer( not the most wonderful outfit you have worn) and he asked me NEVER to ask him again. He says I am beautiful in whatever I wear, and he will tell me straight up if he thinks I should change my clothes, which he has not since then. It’s been 11 yrs since then and no clothing malfunctions.

A4.
ACTUALLY just asked my man this last weekend! And since he loves my curves he actually responds with that…and he will honestly tell me which outfit he prefers, and I am not playing games, I really do want an HONEST answer. I am a people watcher, i see the mistakes to be made, I prefer to not make them when I actually care.
If someone is your best friend they should be the best to you. Honesty is part of that. They should also know when you need a hug because all your pants that day, errr, aren’t quite right.

A5.
I don’t think I’ve ever asked that question to anyone. Maybe if something makes me look prego in my mind, I might ask and get an honest answer.

A6.
I don’t ask. My ass looks fat in jeans because it IS fat. I know this. I accept it, with varying degrees of success, depending on the day.

A7.
I do my best NOT to draw attention to my ass. It’s a big job!!!
Seriously, I shop alone, dress alone and make all these decisions alone.
Just the way I roll.

A8.
If my husband ever said any thing about my fat ass, I would kick his ass to the curb. I don’t ask and he doesn’t comment.
But no matter what size it is, he still loves to grab my ass and that is all that counts.

A9.
I ask… and the answer better be ‘hell ya! I like a big booty!’

Conclusion:
My darlings, we’ll leave on that bootylicious note.

Stay tuned for for my analysis of these results and what they say about the state of our society and the sizes of our respective asses.

In the meantime, feel free to comment on the size of my ass. Every body part that I’m proud of (booty, breasts, brain) is big.