Fake it 'till…

I lay on the table with my eyes closed, my pants unzipped, and my underwear pulled below my pelvis, waiting. It was my first ever sonogram, and I remember wishing I was at a restaurant, able to order what I wanted a la carte. I'd like to have twin boys, please, I'd say. And the server would bring them to me, wrapped in matching blankets, ready to take home. Unfortunately, it took just one pass of the cold and clammy wand over my abdomen for the ultrasound technician to burst my bubble and confidently confirm that one child- and one child only, was growing inside me.

I was disheartened. For years I had been begging the universe to give me twins because I struggle with eating disorders and body acceptance and knew pregnancy would be so hard for me that, like the NYC marathon, I would only have it in me to do it once. The idea of having an only child seemed lonely. Besides, I hadn't wanted a two-for-one deal this badly since my late twenties when I stood outside the YSL sample sale on a tight budget.

But, I smiled anyway and listened to the lonely heartbeat—thump thump. After my belly was wiped clean and my pants were back over my hips, my husband and I left the doctor's office holding a black-and-white printout of what looked to me like a topographic map. At least there is still a 50% chance, I muttered. Of what? He asked, and under my breath, I whispered a 50% chance of having a boy. 

Months passed, and my belly turned from a tiny pouch to a convex appendix. Soon after that, I was back on the table with my pants slid down to my crotch, waiting to know the sex of our baby. While my husband and I held hands, the technician asked, are you ready? He was. I wasn't. We nodded like a pair of idiots. 

It's a girl! The technician announced. Her overused enthusiasm didn't match her face, but I assume she delivers this news frequently, so I don't blame her. My first reaction was to turn to see my husband's smile reach from one end of his face to the other. He loves girls and has spent most of his professional life surrounded by them. My second reaction was to ask, can you please check again? The doctor’s eyebrows arched, and her eyes widened. This request seemed anything but frequent.

I guess I should have explained what I meant. I should have told the woman with arched eyebrows that the thought of raising a girl was terrifying. That there is too much pressure on us. That I grew up in a world where boys are better than girls and that ever since I was a little girl, I felt nothing I did was enough. 

I should have told her that going through puberty was a nightmare because high school girls are mean. I should have told her I wanted boys because being a girl is exhausting. We are supposed to be strong and delicate. Pretty but not consumed by our looks. Assertive but not too assertive. Successful, but always put our family first. We have to fit in every box even when we don't fit in any of them. We are taught not to love ourselves unless we are everything and anything all at the same time- which is impossible.

I should have told her that my entire life, I struggled to be the right kind of girl, and since that meaning seemed to shift daily, I still felt like I was fighting a losing battle. How on earth would I raise a strong and confident woman when I still didn't know how to be one?

But I didn't say any of that. I said, can you please check again?

It's a girl, the woman repeated, and her voice and expression matched this time. Neither was very pleasant.

Twenty minutes later, my pants were back where they belonged, and my husband and I left the doctor's office holding a new black and white photo, except this one looked less like a topographic map and more like a baby- one with nothing between the legs. I put the photo in my purse, knowing my life would never be the same.

In the months prior to my baby’s arrival, I had insisted on not imposing social and cultural gender norms. This included not piercing her ears despite the Latin tradition to do so and staying clear of overtly girly baby wear. While some people respected my choice, others showered us with headbands, ribbons, and bows. Just in case people can't tell she is a girl, they said. I put those in a bin and set them aside.

Eva Lucia was born on a Sunday morning towards the end of July, and even though I hoped to have a quick delivery, she took her time and came when she was ready. She was born with nails so pink that my brother's reaction to the photo my mom texted right after delivery was to say, typical girl. She made everyone wait because she was getting her nails done! My entire family thought that was hysterical, but the comment weighed me down. I hadn't even held my baby, and the world was already putting her in a box- one that garnered criticism off the bat. 

The first time I held Eva, I was already in my private room. I had lost my voice somewhere between pushing and screaming in the delivery room, so my first words to her were short and raspy. Hi, baby. It had been a perfect yet overwhelming forty-eight hours, and as I brought her close, I heard her squeak. She had the hiccups. 

Two days later, Eva came home to a neutral world. My husband and I live in a monochromatic apartment- fifty shades of beige, if you will, and the nursery, baby clothes, and toys were just as gender-neutral as our color palette. But what if she wants girly things? Someone asked me. Then, I said, she can choose when she forms an opinion. 

Well, Eva formed an opinion before she could even form a proper sentence, and her opinion rattled our beige life like a furiously fast-running train rattles a small dusty old town. Eva was not even three years old when tutus, pink unicorns, bows, Disney's Frozen paraphernalia, and anything with glitter and pizzazz began to flood our one-tone Brooklyn apartment. My daughter was so adamant about what she liked and didn't like that all the gender-neutral clothes I had so carefully curated sat in the closet while the pink frilly outfits friends and family had sent in the mail got worn down to a sheer gauze.

But Eva wasn't a girly girl because the world told her to be. She just liked what she liked, which sometimes meant wearing bows all over her head, and sometimes it meant wearing Thomas the Train pull-up diapers- even though the store marketed those towards boys. She was the kind of kid that would run around with a purse on her arm and fake pearls around her neck but never played house. She was her own person and wasn't interested in doing things she didn't want or didn't like- no matter who was doing them around her. She was true to herself, and that was that.

One morning as I stood in the kitchen, I looked at Eva and watched her kiss her reflection in our hallway mirror. She was looking at herself, marveling at every extremity on her body and how it moved. 

Her self-love made me nervous because I grew up with a different message. No one likes a girl who thinks she is the shit, was the lesson I was taught. My father took it so far as to sit me down one day when I was five or six, staring me straight in the eye and saying: Never presume you are a ten. I took his words to heart. Not only did I never presume to be a ten, but I also ensured I never even came close.

I stared at my baby, who thought there was nothing better than the image of who she was, of all she possessed, and what she was capable of. She could be a ten- or any other number she chose to be, and she knew it. I felt jealous because I have often craved that kind of self-love, admiration, and acceptance without guilt or fear of what someone else might say, so I knew then and there that I wouldn't pass my father's message along because my daughter deserved better. I drowned out his words, Never presume you are a ten, and watched my child, hoping to learn from her. 

The years passed as fast as every parent says they do, and before I knew it, Eva was in school- still confident, glowing, and never caring what others thought of her. At the start of second grade, she asked if she could dye her hair turquoise, and I didn't hesitate to say yes. If it makes her happy, and it's what she wants, I thought, why not? 

I took her to see my hair guy, Mario, in Chelsea, and we both sat there for hours waiting for her transformation to materialize under crinkly strips of aluminum foil. When we left the salon, Eva was radiant, and the empowerment that emanated from her seven-year-old self was a forcefield not to be reckoned with. She strutted down the streets of Manhattan owning every step. A lioness prowling the Sahara.

Later that week, at morning drop-off, someone told me I don’t think it’s right for kids to change how they look so early in life. They should leave that for when they are older. I disagreed. Beauty can take any form. Au natural is just as marvelous as sculpted, shaped, and painted on. Any decision to feel beautiful at any age holds value if it empowers the one who makes it. If my daughter identifies with colored hair and wants to feel beautiful in it, then let it be. Let her choose empowerment over peer pressure. She deserves that. We all do.

I admire my daughter's self-confidence and never want to see it dim. But we face a lot of pressure, and it's easy to get caught up in expectations- ours or others. As Eva gets older, I am beyond mindful of the behavior I model and the example I set for her, but living in remission from an eating disorder and being critical of myself makes this task especially hard. Some days, it takes what feels like Herculean effort not to stare at myself in the mirror with critical eyes, pulling at the skin under my eyes or poking and prodding at the parts of me I'd like to change but can't. On those days, I keep moving forward because of her because she is always watching.

A couple of weeks ago, I picked Eva up after school, and as we walked home, she told me, Mami, I don't like my big forehead. Her self-criticism didn't even stop there. By the time we got home, Eva had told me that she didn't like her legs, moles, or the part in her hair. This is how it starts, I thought. This is how girls learn not to love themselves. This, this is why I wanted a boy, I thought.

Heartbroken, I began to ask questions. Why don’t you like your forehead? What is wrong with your legs? Eva didn’t really have answers, so I dug deeper and learned that some of the negative self-talk was being modeled by older girls at school. Fourth and fifth-grade girls comparing themselves to each other or talking about makeup tutorials they had seen online.

I began to spiral. How am I going to make a difference? I wondered. Sure, I have been more than diligent not to criticize what I see in the mirror, but that may not be enough. Being indifferent is not enough- I must be an example of something more. I have to speak positively about myself and SHOW her what it means to love ourselves every day.

There is just one problem. When I look in the mirror, I see a body I have abused for years before learning the importance of self-care and personal wellness. Cutting, overeating, and starvation are part of my journey- so is my love for movement and strength via exercise. I see it all when I look at my body. I see my history in my stretch marks and my cut marks. I see it in my muscles that result from hours of boxing and weight lifting and in my blisters that result from miles of running through city streets and country roads. 

I know the value of my hard work and the beauty of my journey, but labeling my body with positive words is not easy for me. I know I am strong. But acknowledging that I love my strong legs is more complicated because I still have a nagging voice that compares me to others- and it tells me that my legs are not enough. Not shapely enough, nor strong enough. Not long enough or tan enough. 

I work daily to change that voice, another step in my recovery process. My new mantra is to accept myself and love myself today while still aspiring to grow and be the best version of myself tomorrow. Loving ourselves now doesn't mean not wanting change; it means honoring who we are in the process and allowing ourselves to live in the moment. 

With all that in mind, I took Eva by the hand and asked her to stand in front of the mirror- the same one she kissed and admired herself in years ago, and point out attributes that she loves. She rolled her eyes at me. 

Fine, I said. I'll start. So, I stood there, looking at myself, trying to set the right example. Minutes passed, and eventually, I mustered up the courage to say I love my smile. I tried my best to own it, even though the voices inside my head said your teeth could stand to be whiter, your lips are chapped, your chin has dark hairs- is that a blackhead? Where are my tweezers?

It took a lot to drown out the voices in my head. There is so much chatter, and so much of it is negative- but if that is what it takes for me to show my daughter how to love herself, I will fake it until it makes a difference for both of us.