In the checkout line, Aubrey creeps under my skirt and stands up to run her fingers across my bare buns. She’s three and I’m used to her innocent caresses; however, I’m not prepared for her cold fingers goosing me as I pay for groceries, or the echoes of her voice bouncing off linoleum floors, glass doors and an open cash register with the holler of “Hey Mommy! Why aren’t you wearing any panties?”
I wince and blush at the checker suppressing her laugh and the guy in line behind me with bearded stubble and a 12-pack. I guide Aubrey down – and out – of there, and then ask her to please stand beside me and hold off on further observations. Please.
I’m not about to explain the subtle nuances of underwear at Safeway to a three-year-old: I’m not about to tell her and our neighbors in line that I am indeed wearing underwear, but I’m wearing what we call a thong, which would give her more to figure out and a more elaborate image for our neighbor than makes me comfortable.
I save that conversation for the van ride home, where I explain differences in underwear choices and panty lines to a little girl who will later that week hike her panties up to her armpits, creating a sort of toddler thong, and run through the house yelling, “I’m Mommy! I’m Mommy!”
Recently, her attention has turned to my breasts, and has advanced to petting. Heavy petting if I don’t stop her.
She cops a feel when we read books, when I finish a shower, when I wear a pretty blouse. She starts with the outer curves, working circles around them, and moves her way inward, skimming the nipples. She pokes, she strokes, she kisses.
I feel like a teenager in the back seat after Sadie Hawkins. I try to fend her off with a smile and the option to, say, just hold hands. “But, hey!” she seems to plea. “You invited me! And, after all, I love you!”
As unnerving, and even annoying, as these experiences can be, I know it’s healthy that my daughter is curious about the female body – mine, in particular – and that she is expressing herself this way. In fact, I’m grateful she admires what she sees and feels. It’s taken me years to get to that point. It’s taken me years of unassuming one-piece swimsuits, control top pantyhose, and bad posture to make my breasts seem smaller, all because I didn’t think the fullness, the billows, and the curviness of my body deserved much more.
My own mother had full breasts, thick thighs and a stomach that wasn’t flat. She was active – skiing, hiking, wearing short shorts and two-pieces without worrying about looking perfect – and she otherwise dressed in a classic style she thought served her figure well. I didn’t necessarily admire her body, and I never caressed it with Aubrey’s zeal, but I intently watched how she handled it, which seemed confident if somewhat careful.
A child of the ‘70s, my strongest notions of body size and proportion probably came from television. Wonder Woman, with her large breasts, small waist and cottage-cheese-free thighs set an early standard for me. As did posters of Farrah Fawcett at my dad’s house and any commercial with an attractive woman in it. I watched wholesome shows like Little House on the Prairie and Diff’rent Strokes, too, but my mind clung to images of women filling out their jeans and skirts, and even their prairie dresses, just so.
So when my daughter, who doesn’t watch commercial television, feels me up, telling me she loves me, that I’m beautiful, and that she wants to be just like me when she grows up, I start to understand that this size 12 body of mine is getting exactly the attention and admiration it deserves. Aubrey’s perspective is pure.
Some of that pure perspective rubbed off on me this summer, when I saw my mother and my aunt together. Both in their sixties now, their knees are dimpled, their waists are thickening, their arms are firm, and their breasts are still large, if slightly lower. They played croquet, they sat and talked, they ate from the snack tray. They laughed at the dog sniffing where nobody wanted him to sniff. They weren’t self-conscious. They were happy. They were comfortable.
I thought, Look at them. Look how they move with agility and strength, how they smile and laugh with confidence. Look how they accept themselves and enjoy others. And then I thought, That’s me. That’s me in 30 years. Look how lovely they are – and look who I’m going to be.
Perhaps Aubrey’s having that revelation now. Perhaps when she runs her fingers across my backside, gropes my chest, and asks when she’ll get her own set of breasts or if I’ll save my pink panties for her, she’s literally embracing who she is and who she’s going to be someday.
Who knows? Maybe I should have tested the limits of the cue I’d taken from Aubrey this summer. Maybe when I admired my mother and my aunt, I should have grabbed handfuls of their butts and their boobs like Aubrey would – if only to fully embrace my destiny, too.
