My 5-year-old daughter loves my body – and sometimes she’s curious about it in the most disarming ways.

At the grocery store once when she was three, she crept under my skirt at the checkout line and yelled, “Hey Mommy! Why aren’t you wearing any panties?” as she reached up to run those delicate little fingers of hers across my buns.

I clenched, winced, put on a brave smile for the guy behind me with bearded stubble and a 12-pack, and gently guided her down – and out – of there, asking her to simply stand beside me please. I was not about to explain the subtle nuances of underwear at Safeway to a three-year-old; I was not about to tell her and our neighbor in line that indeed I did have underwear on, it’s just that I was wearing what we call a thong.

I saved that conversation for the van ride home.

Lately, her attention has turned to my breasts – and her attention has advanced to petting. Heavy petting if I don’t stop her.

She cops a feel when we read books, when I get out of the shower, when I’m wearing a pretty blouse. She starts with the outer curves, working big circles around them, and moves her way inward to attempt to cross paths with the nipples hiding under the fabric. She pokes them, strokes them, and even kisses them.

I feel like a teenager in the back seat after Sadie Hawkins – I try to sweetly fend her off, but Hey! she seems to say. You invited me! And, after all, I love you!

As unnerving as these experiences can be, I know it’s healthy that she’s expressing herself this way. And I am extremely grateful that she admires what she sees (and feels). It’s taken me years to get to that point – to love the fullness, the billows, the curviness of it all.

In fact, it was only this summer, when I saw my mother and my aunt together, both in their sixties now, that I looked at their bodies appreciatively: dimpled knees, thickening waist lines, firm arms, large breasts. I thought, that’s me. That’s my body in 30 years. And look how lovely they are. Look how they move with agility and strength. Look how they smile and laugh with confidence. Look who I’m going to be.

Perhaps Aubrey’s having that revelation now. Perhaps when she lifts my skirt, gropes my chest, and, most recently, asks when she’ll be getting her own set of breasts or if I’ll save my pink panties for her for when she grows up, she’s (literally) embracing who she is and who she’s going to be someday.

Who knows? If I weren’t 36, maybe this summer I would’ve grabbed handfuls of my mother and my aunt simply to embrace my destiny, too.

By Anjie Reynolds

Labels: Anjie Reynolds

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