Summer Reflection

Summer is finally here. And, if you live in Massachusetts, you will understand that this is a pretty big deal. Especially this year. Because it has taken it’s sweet time to get here and because it is such a short season.

This year, summer brings us our first experience with the American school vacation system. Ten weeks of time to occupy and entertain two energetic, curious, fun-seeking and rambunctious boys. Two boys who love swimming and who have discovered the beach that is 10 minutes away from our house.

I was blessed to grow up near Cape Town, South Africa, and if you have ever been there, you will understand just how much the smell and sound of the gentle surf gets to the core of your soul. The rush of the rolling waves breaking on the velvety soft sandy shore, the fresh scent of the salted water, the warmth of the golden sun beating on bare skin and the cooling breeze of ocean air blended to make a heady cocktail of stirred-not-shaken serenity.

The kind of cocktail that leaves a hangover of peace and contentment, having cleansed all the frenzied stresses and worries from an overactive what-if mind.

Living near the beach and fulfilling the summer swimming pool fun-in-the-sun requirement brings us to the inevitable swimsuit season.

Aaahh, yes. The swimsuit. Bather. Swimming costume. Bikini. Tankini. Speedo.
Cover-all, cover-up, cover-nothing.
The occasion of flaunting a body that hasn’t seen a ray of sunshine in near on 9 months. And a body that is bearing the abuse of a few too many…okay, a lot…of slabs of Lindt and a few too many bags of potato chips and a criminal lack of exercise.

I am ashamed to admit that the first thought that popped into my head wasn’t about how the weather has finally cheered up, or about how it’s going to be a time to reconnect with family and friends or how we will make new memories and possibly start new traditions.
It was about my body. And about how self conscious I am and embarrassed to be seen in swimming attire.

But how about, instead of allowing that superficial commentary to run on replay in my mind, I stop the negative whisper from becoming an affirmation and from taking any enjoyment out of this season?
How about I take note of the fact that even at my 20 and 25 year old thinnest and slimmest, I still felt self conscious and exposed, vulnerable, because I didn’t think I was thin enough or pretty enough, tanned enough or….a whole host of other enoughs.

How about I remember that this body is the same body that birthed two unique, beautiful, gorgeous baby boys.

The stretch marks (thanks to the final two weeks of carrying baby boy number 2) are still there. Their silvery slivery scars are a testament to life, relentlessly latched on to a less than toned and flat belly.
The beginnings of saddlebags bear witness to a few too many finishings of half eaten boys meals (I can’t bear waste).
The collar bones that are a little less enunciated under the padding of soul soothing ice cream scoops (straight from the tub with your favorite spoon).
And the dreaded prod-inducing love handles that seem to grow bigger each week, as my jeans grow smaller (muffin tops are surely meant to be edible?).

I could focus on all of that.

But this year, maybe I shouldn’t.

It won’t be easy, but maybe it’s time I make a conscious decision to just breathe in and out.
Inhale. Exhale.
And relax.

Enjoy the activity around me and focus on the fun and enjoyment of my boys.
They don’t care about the saggy bits, or the flabby bits or the skin so pale it’s reflective like the moonlight on an arum lily along the riverbanks of misguided perception and comparison.
They don’t care about the stretch marks or the number on the scale or size on the clothing label.

They care about me.

The inside me.

The me that can relax and enjoy their company. The me that makes them feel like my world revolves around them. The me that lights up when they enter the room. The me that knows that there are far more important things in this life than the shape of your body or the style of your hair or the way that you speak. The me that shouts a little less and listens a little more.

The me that knows that there will always be someone who is more. More beautiful, more funny, more successful, more clever, more thin, more curvaceous, more happy, more free, more uninhibited, more….

Maybe it’s time for me to accept that I don’t need to be more.

I need to be me.

Because even though there always is and always will be room for improvement, being me is enough.

Just the way I am.

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