Photoshop and My Son

     

My 9 year old son asked me what Photoshop was at dinner last week.  I explained that it is a photo altering program that can do thousands of different things to change an image. He seemed satisfied with that answer. Then he asked me why I do not like Photoshop.  I knew this moment was going to happen one day; that his little ears were picking up things I said to friends and family. As the mother to a boy I feel it is my duty to raise a son that respects women of all sizes and understands that all bodies are beautiful.  I want my son to understand the images that he is bombarded with are not real. No one is flawless.  I want my son to question an image that looks perfect and understand women and men are not perfect in "real" life.  

     I explained to him that it is not that I do not like Photoshop. Photoshop can be used to create art or enhance a photograph.  What I do not like is that Photoshop is used to create flawless looking people. No one is flawless in life and looking at perfect people can make someone feel bad about how they look. I do not looking at ads that are lying to me with a Photoshopped model.  I could see the questions forming in his face. 

     I pulled a magazine from the recycling bin and showed him ads of women with perfect faces. I told him to look at my face when I smile, "See the lines that I get around my eyes? Now look at this model selling tooth paste. Where are the lines around her eyes? Smile like she is and feel around your eyes. Feel the wrinkles on your face. Wrinkles around the eyes are natural to everyone when they smile. Yet, this model doesn't have any? Seem odd to you?"  He nodded with wide eyes. I could see the veil beginning to lift off his eyes. Then I showed him the Dove commercial. He sat with his mouth open watching the transformation take place. 

     It is a rare moment in life when my child is quiet. We sat in silence for a few moments while he processed what he saw. Finally he turns to me and says, "I understand now why you do not like Photoshop." What he did next brought tears to my eyes. He got out of his chair and came to give me a hug. It was not just any hug; my little boy hugged me tight and stayed there for a few minutes. Finally he says, "I think you're beautiful and so does Dad. I hope everyone has someone to remind them they are beautiful." 

     My son gives me hope that I can teach him to not just accept the images he sees.  I believe the next generation should be taught that the images they see are lies. My son now understands why my magazines go in the recycling bin without me looking at them. He took it upon himself to toss one in the bin this week on my behalf.   My son sees me with no makeup, messy morning hair, and sweaty after my workouts.  A mother to a son is the most beautiful person he knows and I hope by showing him my realness as a human he will internalize the realness of women (and men).  

     While my son is young I am the role model for women to him. How I treat myself is how he will grow to view women. He is part of my motivation to maintain a healthy body, physically and mentally.  My wish is that I represent strength, intelligence, kindness, compassion, and class to him. My wish for my son is for him to grow up to value women for who they are and not base their beauty on the unrealistic physical lies brought about by Photoshop. 

Photoshop Changed My Mind

     I don't want the flabby arms but I have them and I work hard to strengthen them. It's okay that I don't love my arms, their mine and I'm the one that has to live with them.  It's another emotion when someone points them out as a flaw, throws out insulting comments about how big they are, then Photoshops them to their standard of beauty.  I knew my arms were big but since when does that make them wrong? I was offended by someone thinking I wasn't beautiful the way I am.  I was offended that they thought they were doing me a favor. In that moment of mentally defending my arms, I discovered a seed of self love and pride.

     I stared at this photo of myself imagining those sticks were my arms. I couldn't make the image match. I come with big arms. They're big, not because they're fat, they're big because I USED to be 300 pounds! They are my badge of honor. This extra skin that waves along with me, I worked HARD for that.  I'm not a celebrity and I don't want to be treated like one, meaning, leave my "flaws" alone. This is not the cover of a magazine, these are personal photos that my family will hold onto and cherish for many years. I'm guessing someone might notice, out of all my pictures, this one I look different.  

     I don't wish to lie to myself. I do not want to look at photos that have altered my body. Blend out the zit, stain on my shirt, or even a wrinkle or two, but my body is what it is and it is beautiful.  My flab, rolls, stretch marks, and cellulite are mine. If I can learn to accept them so can the people around me.  I was so offended by the Photoshopping and someone thinking they were doing me a favor that I embraced my arms, mentally hugging them and telling them that it's ok, I see them as beautiful. 
   
     The Photoshopper who gave me those sticks taught me a valuable lesson. Without that image I may never had made peace with myself, with my "flaws". I do not see my arms as a flaw anymore. My body is not wrong; society is wrong for subjecting women to a beauty standard that isn't real. Celebrities and models are Photoshopped on everything. I could transform my body into the best it can be and it still would not be considered perfect. I need to see myself as perfect now because regardless of what I do to it, someone will find something wrong. 

    As for the photo that started it all, it lives under my bed (it's a large canvas photo). I can't look at it because it makes me sad. I hold on to it for several reasons - the most important being the lesson that came from it. This is the first summer I am not subjecting myself to cardigans in 100 and something degree heat to hide my arms. I show my arms with pride now, they have become my middle finger to unrealistic beauty standards. This is me, I am beautiful  and no one can make me ashamed of my body. 

I'm No Super Model. Neither are They.

 

    I swear I was promised a super model body. Every diet/weight loss commercial on TV shows the before and after of how the super model found herself underneath her fat rolls. I started my weight loss journey with a preconceived notion that when I was done, I would be a super model.  I would have cut abs, a tight butt, and perfect boobs. My journey has been five years now and I've never woke up perfect; instead I have stretch marks, extra skin, cellulite, and thighs that still touch.  Reality is hard to face, somehow at the end I still felt like I failed.  I found myself at a cross road, a very slippery slope -  I wasn't happy with what I saw but I was healthy. How could I still not be satisfied? When do I stop fighting and start enjoying?

     I took a long look at myself in the mirror. I've never been kind to my body. I've starved it, stuffed it, abused it, and loathed it. I had to call a truce with myself. I had to stop hating myself - I don't want to spend my entire life not enjoying who I am and the package I come in.  This time it wasn't about the number on the scale, it was about love for myself and my body.        

     I accept the extra skin on my arms. My wings, my flab, my wabble, whatever name it goes by. No more am I wearing cardigans in 100 degree weather because I want to hide them. My arms are strong; they pick up, work out, and hug just like everyone else's. The skin is the remnants of a person who is no longer and will never be again. My arms show a part of my story. The extra skin doesn't represent failure, they represent a journey.  The skin is with me forever and forever is a long time to not like a part of myself.

   I accept my stretch marks. I remember when the purple lines formed on my stomach.  I stopped seeing my body after that. I felt ruined. I became a blur to myself, a quick change artist.  I had to listen to my own advice. I tell my son, who is shorter than most children his age, that it is a waste of energy to get upset over something you can not change. His height does not make him who he is as a person and neither do my stretch marks.  I am not kidding myself anymore; EVERYONE has stretch marks. EVERYONE!! They come about for all kinds of reasons and all are natural for the human body. No more will I waste my energy on what I can not change and is also NORMAL!!

     My arms and stretch marks are NOT flaws - they are what makes me human. I am not the only person with extra skin on my arms or stretch marks on my stomach.  Why are we trying to convince others that somehow we are the only person in the world to have never used our bodies? To have never grown, or had a baby, or gained weight?  Our body idols have stretch marks; Marilyn Monroe, Beyonce, Kate Middleton, and everyone else who ever lived. The vernacular used to describe the body needs to change. Erase the word "flaw" and replace it with "normal" and accept the body for what it does.

     I will never be a super model and neither will anyone else. There is no such person. I like this reality; there is a lot less pressure realizing no one has a blemish free body. I am done playing dumb to a culture that assumes I don't know models and actresses are being Photoshopped.  I will not allow these fantasy images to influence the acceptance of my body.  I am human, I am normal, and my body is healthy and strong.  I choose to love myself, to value myself, and to cherish my body.  I will now be removing the "sucker" sticker off my forehead. No one can make me feel bad about myself anymore.