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More from Fidelia:
As the chaplain to a small women’s college my misperceptions of my own body rise to the surface on a regular basis. My day-to-day actions set an example for the women around me. The amount of rest I get, my fitness level, my stress level, and my eating habits are of as much interest to the students as my theological knowledge or spiritual well being. We often imagine that the minds of small children are like little sponges, absorbing everything around them, and assume that by college age this formation is done. But college students are much the same, soaking up the adult world around them, trying on identities to determine which ones might fit. I know that just as they try on the personas of the other students, they will also try on my identity to see if it mirrors what they would like to be themselves. I would hate to find out that my body issues reinforced or supported the same self-loathing behavior in anyone else.
You see, that’s just the problem. These ideas about my body didn’t just arise out of thin air. They are part and parcel of the persona I tried on and then accepted for myself. The media, conversations with family, and interactions friends all reinforce these ideals. I watch the women and men who are made over by “What Not To Wear,” analyze the characters on “LA Ink,” and laugh at the strange perfectionism of the women who grace the screen in episodes of “Dr. 90210.”
In conversations with my family we talk about what we are eating, our size, our weight, and inevitably how we aren’t pleased with any of it. For years I have struggled to find a mental space where I would love my body no matter what size it may be. I purchase clothes that are flattering, diet, or exercise only to be briefly pleased with the results. I find that I return to the same place of self loathing in short order, regardless of what I do. Not that long ago I purchased People magazine just to read an article about Jennifer Love Hewitt’s response to appalling tabloid photos displaying her minimal cellulite so that I would have a visual reminder that we are all beautifully, perfectly, imperfect. Read more
When my husband and I signed up for our labor and delivery classes at Meriter Hospital, I looked forward to these sessions with both excitement and trepidation. It was unfortunate that we missed the last class, which was on breastfeeding. I never really thought it would be a big deal. After all, my mother never had any problems, and I knew women had been doing this for ages. The thought of taking a class on a “natural” biological event seemed a bit strange.
When my infant son was born with a full head of hair and a round little face, the nurses plopped him on my breast as I was lying prone recovering from surgery. I didn’t know anything about latching him on, nor did he. He lay on top of me like a little papoose snuggling into me for warmth. As we waited and waited for my milk to come in Elias, my little baby, started to lose weight. In the meantime, I felt so helpless and was helpless to the helpless.
I was amazed that this tiny creature had to be taught how to eat, how to breastfeed. I thought of our Lord as an infant getting his own clenched fists in the way of his mouth and of his source of life. Who could imagine that the King of the Universe would have struggled like Elias did to learn his source of sustenance and succor? While Elias had his own struggles, his mother wondered about her ability to mother, especially without the powerful gift of strong feminine milk. The milk finally came in, but soon we were to learn that the mother/son pair just couldn’t find a great symbiotic rhythm.
After a couple of weeks of lots of trial and error, it was discovered that I did not produce enough milk to keep my son going. It was no wonder we started to pray the hours more than even a monastic community. You see, every time Elias needed to eat we would set ourselves up in the breastfeeding chair. During those moments of desolation, that place became a place of prayer. A simple, “Please, Lord, help him get enough” was enough to keep the prayers going to God. Once I was put on medication to produce more breastmilk, my prayers changed in nature. Read more
This month’s Christ and Creativity feature…
Storytime
They thought I was one of those teenage mothers who turned out all right.
But the county health department nurses didn’t know
that the young tornadoes in their waiting room
were only mine occasionally.
Both settled on my lap,
sister on one leg, brother on the other,
and I breathed unwashed blond hair
with every page of Berenstein Bears.
Home stayed home.
Hyper, Punch, and Kick took the afternoon off.
I was the Mama and Papa Bear hug that ends every story.
“Read us another one,”
tamed cubs chanted.
Occasionally, heaven visits earth for an hour.
The nurse told them how lucky they were to have a mom who reads to them.
“She’s not our mom!”
they yelled as they raced out.
But I could’ve been, wasn’t I?
