A few weeks ago, while enjoying storytime with my kids, my 5-year-old, Max, snuggled up close and casually remarked that I had a very soft belly. I paused, book in hand.
Okay, I thought frantically, I’m a modern mama. Naturally, my belly has some softness, and I should embrace that. This moment is a teaching opportunity about body positivity. Or something like that. I know I should respond in a way that encourages a healthy body image. But the wise words I’ve read and shared with friends seemed to vanish in an instant. I felt the pressure to say something meaningful, but nothing felt authentic.
All I could feel was my stomach tightening, as if I could suck in the softness with a deep breath. I resumed reading.
After this “soft belly” episode, I realized I hadn’t really checked in with my own body image lately. At this stage in my life, worrying about my appearance ranks somewhere around No. 457 on my priority list. For instance, “Can I wear these jeans for a fifth day?” and “Do I have enough bread for sandwiches?” take precedence over my looks. Most days, I don’t even glance in the mirror.
But that innocent comment from Max brought some long-buried insecurities back to the surface. I had thought I’d set these aside when I became a mom, but it turns out they were just lying in wait. And when I accidentally tripped over that No. 457, the result was rarely uplifting—just waves of self-doubt and criticism.
Can you relate?
So, how do I teach my children about body positivity when I’m still navigating my own struggles? The answer was right next to me. I realized that it wasn’t about me teaching them; it was about them teaching me.
Max had a lesson to share that day, but I totally missed it. The negative association I had with “soft” clouded my understanding of his innocent words.
Let’s rewind and retell this moment. A few weeks ago, I was reading with my three kids, all under the age of five. As I turned the page in a beloved story, Max nestled against me and, with a blissful sigh, said I had a very soft belly.
That wasn’t a critique; it was a statement of comfort. For him, it symbolized safety and warmth. It meant home. In that moment, as he felt the embrace of the body that nurtured him, he felt joy. He expressed how nice it was to snuggle into his mommy, and I missed that beautiful sentiment in my own insecurities.
Sometimes, it’s not the kids who need guidance about body image. In fact, they often have much to teach us. If we ask children about our bodies, we discover profound insights. They’ll tell us bodies are meant for play, love, and adventure. They’ll say skin is soft and occasionally marked with scrapes that need a kiss. Fingers and toes are for feeling the cool grass or warm sand. Arms are for reaching out, even when the goal seems far away. Faces are canvases for wild expressions, and bellies are for giggles and delicious food—especially when they belong to their mommies.
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In summary, the next time you hear a child’s innocent comment about body image, pause for a moment. You might just find that they’re here to teach you more than you could ever imagine.