savagemama

A few years ago when I was living in Eugene, Oregon, I was in a yoga class when a man named Gene couldn’t stand on one foot. He hopped up and down trying desperately to gain his balance while holding his other foot in front of him. Because it was Eugene, once the hippie center of the universe, we practiced in a circle (and often rubbed each other’s shoulders). And standing in a circle meant no one could take their eyes off Gene.

He looked to be in his late fifties. I pictured him as part of a quiet minority in a town known for hemp dog leashes and drum circles. I’m pretty sure he wore slacks in his daily work. Maybe even button downs. I thought he was probably a lawyer or a businessman who sat behind a desk most of the day. Maybe he took a walk at lunch but other than that he I didn’t imagine he got much exercise. In my little daydream about what his life must be like, he certainly didn’t do much yoga.

But, still, there he was, hopping.

Thud, thud, thud.
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I stripped down to my underwear this week and had my picture taken by a man I didn’t even know. What can I say? It’s been an odd week.

Maybe I should do some explaining.

I got an email a few weeks ago asking some mamas to do a photo shoot – and underwear photo shoot. When I first read the message I was sure the woman who conceived of this idea had absolutely lost her mind. I thought, wow, that’s brave. I hope they have a good time. But as I moved through the week, I kept thinking about the photo shoot.

The concept, women of all body types, whose bellies had been stretched proud from babies, getting down to the basics with each other in a supportive environment, resonated with me. I have two young daughters and I’m always saying how I want them to be proud of their bodies. I saw in this an opportunity to, well, put up or shut up. Where else will they learn to be confident in their own skin if not from their mama? But the thought of having my picture taken in my under things terrified me.

I took a deep breath and emailed the woman in charge.

“So, is that a yes?” she wrote back.
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I suppose I always knew this day would come, the day when I could officially call myself a mother. This day has nothing to do with birthing, nursing or changing someone’s diaper. It has nothing to do with my daughters’ first words, stay-up-all-night ear infections (well, maybe a little) or timeouts.

It has to do with an older woman in the grocery store who chided my daughter for having her hand in the bulk lollipop bin. It has to do with standing up for myself and my kid.

“That’s not good for anyone,” she said.

I looked in the direction of my three-year-old daughter who had lifted the lid and was choosing a lollipop out of a plastic bin at our local health food store. My one-year-old daughter was wriggling herself out of the shopping cart so I wrestled her onto my hip to get a better view.

“Oh,” I said. “She’s just getting a sucker.”

“Well that’s not good,” she said.

What’s not good, I thought? Kids in the bulk bins? The lollipops are wrapped.

I thought our little interaction, as unpleasant as it had been, was over. Wrong. A few minutes later as Eliza still stood with the bin open to the lollipops, the woman came around the corner again. This time Lucille, my one-year-old was cruising to catch up to her sister.

“That’s not good,” the woman said again. “I know it’s tough with little kids but that’s not good for anyone.”

And then it happened. I was mid-conversation with another woman I hadn’t seen in a long time when I turned to the woman chiding me and my child and words just began spilling out of my mouth.
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My three-year-old daughter Eliza loves Spiderman. She tells me so all the time.

“Mama,” she’ll say in her serious voice. “I really, really like Spiderman.”

“I know you do, baby,” I tell her. “I know you do.”

I’m not entirely sure where the obsession started except that a friend’s son, Johnny, might have lit the spark. He’s since handed down t-shirts, coats, pajamas and muscle shirts all with Spiderman splashed across the front or back or both. Eliza was so enamored with Johnny’s light up shoes that she would wear them around whenever we were at his house. So the next time she needed shoes we found ourselves in Target.

“I don’t like these,” she said of every pair I tried to get her to try on. As I was reshelving shoes of every kind she slipped around to the next aisle.

“Mama, Mama!” I heard her squeal. “I want these!” She had found the same pair of light up shoes.
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