When Size Doesn’t Matter

This morning, when my oldest was getting dressed, she came to me in a panic.

“Mommy, my long sleeved shirts don’t fit!” she said, holding one up. 

It was from the spring, like most of her warmer gear, and was still in good shape. I was used to buying new pants each season, but shirts usually lasted a couple. So I asked her to try it on.

“You’re right,” I said, noticing its length. “You’ve gotten a lot taller. I’ll have to get you some new ones.”

She paused, then spoke.  “What size will the new shirts be?” 

I shrugged. “I guess one size bigger than the old ones!” I said.

“No,” she said with force. “I won’t wear that size.”

“Why? The smaller ones are too short.”

“But that size is bigger than my age. I don’t want to be big!”

A wave of guilt washed over me. Had I taught her this? How could my beautiful, strong, healthy eight-year-old be worried about size? I tried to hide my devastation as I stood there thinking of all the times I’d skipped dessert, of the complaining I’d done when my own clothes felt tight. I’ve been trying hard to act better, to be less worried with size. But I’d be lying if I said it came easily. 

And so I sat her down. 

“Ceci, I am going to let you in on a secret. Something I’m still learning myself. Your body is perfect. It is strong. It can do pushups and sit-ups and back handsprings. All through life you will hear people talking about the size of their clothes, and you know what? It means nothing. What matters is that you are healthy. That you eat well. Exercise. And feel good. As long as you are doing those things, nothing else matters.”

“Is that why you run every day?” she asked.

I nodded. “Exactly! I want to be healthy and strong. Like you.”

She smiled. While I’m not sure I convinced her, I could tell I’d planted a seed that maybe size didn’t have to matter. And silently I promised to try harder to be kinder to myself too. So that next time she needs a new size, she’ll smile and see it for what it is. An opportunity for us to go shopping.