Yes, you know what's coming: it's that question, that one question that can be so wonderful and terrible all at the same time. It's that one question we ladies ask only if we are sure of the answer. It's that one question men don't ask at all for fear that they would be wrong and insult the lady in question. But for a child, their innocent minds operate so "clean". They observe, they process the information, and they output a conclusion in split seconds. No complexities, no nuances, no subtleties over social norms about which to worry. In short, there is no filter to remind them that what enters their mind may be better left unsaid.
So, yes, my daughter asked that question, popping it out with all the candor and frank quality that would be expected from an older person: "Mom," she says, as she points to my tummy, "are you pregnant?!"
I am startled and look down to the place her finger is pointing, "No, Cici," I begin, chuckling along, "that's my pooch! That's what's leftover after having six babies."
"Really? You aren't pregnant?" she reasons that the data she sees before her (a small -- well, pretty small pooch) must mean that mom is pregnant. She must be pregnant, right? Women don't just have little bumps on their tummies, do they?
"Really, Cici. I'd tell you if I were pregnant. Unfortunately, my tummy got really stretched out and so I've got this little bump."
"Well, ok, but you look pregnant." And off she goes, tra-la-la-la-la, to make more observations in the household!
"Ummm, well, thanks, Cici." Hmmm...I look down at that 'pretty small' pooch. It isn't that big, is it?
"Really? I really look pregnant?" I mumble to myself. "Gosh, I work out enough and watch my food intake pretty good. Shouldn't that pooch be smaller? OUCH! That one stings a little."
Later that day, my husband arrives on the scene, trying to grab an afternoon snack. I sidle up to him next to the kitchen island and innocently ask that one question. Of course, I try to come off really natural: "Hey, Hon, do I look pregnant?" (Yeah, I know, I can work on the 'natural' part.)
"No, no, no...you're not getting me to answer this one. Not a chance. You look great!"
"A nice safe comeback, but you didn't answer the question."
"I'm not going to answer that one; it's like that other question: 'Does this outfit make me look fat?'"
"No really, I'm not going to get upset. It's just that Cici asked me if I were pregnant and I was surprised, so I thought I'd get a second opinion."
"I've got some work to do. I'll let her know not to ask that question anymore." Alex exits quickly from the kitchen.
This comedic moment in my day did get me thinking (yes, it doesn't take much for a melancholic to get philosophical) about the emphasis our culture puts on our bodies and how much it rubs off on us in spite of our best attempts to keep our perspectives in check.
For example, on occasion I have been told that I "look great" and then the phrase "for having six kids" gets tacked on. I smile and say thank you because I understand that the person means it as a compliment -- no disingenuous intent. And I am really thankful because it feels good to hear the hard work at the gym is paying off. But at times (maybe when I am in a grumpy, sleep deprived state), I do get the urge to say: "What do you expect me to look like with six kids? Is there is some stock image look of 'woman with six kids'. Is she larger because the number of children she has? Is she unkempt because she has such a brood to raise? Is she proportionate everywhere except in the tummy?" Yes, on those grumpy, sleep deprived days, I can read more into a compliment, and it can get me feeling self-conscious about my body.
That's typically when I feel those interior nudges from heaven reminding me to shift my focus to my beautiful children. I can hear all those saints and angels cheering me on reminding me: "Your vision is too short sighted, Carla! Open your eyes!!! You know that it's not the girlish figure that makes a woman beautiful. It's those sacrifices a woman makes to bear life. She gains a beauty all her own because she has nurtured a new life into the world. When that little person enters this world and looks to Mommy, those sweet eyes don't stare at the stretched tummy and disheveled hair; they just receive her love -- drinking it in and returning it back. Drink in that love and enjoy it now because this time is so fleeting."
"Yes, I know," I answer back interiorly. I think of that lil' baby girl that smiles brightly at me each day and brings such joy to our home. I think of my bigger Cici and her unfiltered question that allowed me to reflect on the beauty of motherhood. Isn't it so much like a child to teach us humility? And isn't it so much like God to use them to draw us closer to the intangibles that last? Sometimes I wonder who is growing up more: me or them?
"Ummm, well, thanks, Cici." Hmmm...I look down at that 'pretty small' pooch. It isn't that big, is it?
"Really? I really look pregnant?" I mumble to myself. "Gosh, I work out enough and watch my food intake pretty good. Shouldn't that pooch be smaller? OUCH! That one stings a little."
Later that day, my husband arrives on the scene, trying to grab an afternoon snack. I sidle up to him next to the kitchen island and innocently ask that one question. Of course, I try to come off really natural: "Hey, Hon, do I look pregnant?" (Yeah, I know, I can work on the 'natural' part.)
"No, no, no...you're not getting me to answer this one. Not a chance. You look great!"
"A nice safe comeback, but you didn't answer the question."
"I'm not going to answer that one; it's like that other question: 'Does this outfit make me look fat?'"
"No really, I'm not going to get upset. It's just that Cici asked me if I were pregnant and I was surprised, so I thought I'd get a second opinion."
"I've got some work to do. I'll let her know not to ask that question anymore." Alex exits quickly from the kitchen.
This comedic moment in my day did get me thinking (yes, it doesn't take much for a melancholic to get philosophical) about the emphasis our culture puts on our bodies and how much it rubs off on us in spite of our best attempts to keep our perspectives in check.
For example, on occasion I have been told that I "look great" and then the phrase "for having six kids" gets tacked on. I smile and say thank you because I understand that the person means it as a compliment -- no disingenuous intent. And I am really thankful because it feels good to hear the hard work at the gym is paying off. But at times (maybe when I am in a grumpy, sleep deprived state), I do get the urge to say: "What do you expect me to look like with six kids? Is there is some stock image look of 'woman with six kids'. Is she larger because the number of children she has? Is she unkempt because she has such a brood to raise? Is she proportionate everywhere except in the tummy?" Yes, on those grumpy, sleep deprived days, I can read more into a compliment, and it can get me feeling self-conscious about my body.
That's typically when I feel those interior nudges from heaven reminding me to shift my focus to my beautiful children. I can hear all those saints and angels cheering me on reminding me: "Your vision is too short sighted, Carla! Open your eyes!!! You know that it's not the girlish figure that makes a woman beautiful. It's those sacrifices a woman makes to bear life. She gains a beauty all her own because she has nurtured a new life into the world. When that little person enters this world and looks to Mommy, those sweet eyes don't stare at the stretched tummy and disheveled hair; they just receive her love -- drinking it in and returning it back. Drink in that love and enjoy it now because this time is so fleeting."
"Yes, I know," I answer back interiorly. I think of that lil' baby girl that smiles brightly at me each day and brings such joy to our home. I think of my bigger Cici and her unfiltered question that allowed me to reflect on the beauty of motherhood. Isn't it so much like a child to teach us humility? And isn't it so much like God to use them to draw us closer to the intangibles that last? Sometimes I wonder who is growing up more: me or them?
