Throw Your Weight Around (and Papa Appreciation)

Growing up as a teenager and then as a young adult, I suffered through the same body insecurities that so many girls and women go through these days. I was never satisfied with how I looked and deeply insecure with my weight, my physical appearance and all that went along with that.

How many hours did I spend peering into the mirror, micro-analyzing every supposed flaw and being so deeply concerned that these faults would somehow affect the overall progress of my life, would determine who would be friends with me and whether or not I was attractive or worthy of affection?

I did the dieting. I had an unhealthy relationship with food in both directions, undereating and then overeating and neither behavior got me the results that I wanted. I exercised, counted calories, was miserable. Tried another thing. Continued to not be terribly successful at achieving my body image goals. But truthfully, my goals perhaps were not worth attaining anyway.

I admit that I didn't stop being self-conscious about my appearance until after I married my husband. It took years of being married to someone who thought I was beautiful, and sincerely meant it even after bouts of illness, of sleepless nights, of the day to day, of not to putting my best face forward (and yet he thought it was) to finally believe that I was. Not just in his eyes, but to myself as well. And it took becoming a mother not only to not be self-conscious but also be satisfied with this body given to me. Perhaps it was the hours of being exposed and observed in hospital rooms. Perhaps it was because for the first time in my life I was completely responsible for something so beautiful and helpless and I was helplessly in love with them. Their lives meant more to me than mine, and I saw how they saw me... how my husband saw me. I wasn't a sum of acceptable features mixed with imperfections. To my children, I was their mother and only that. To my husband, I was his wife.

The scars on my hands, the wrinkles on my face, the changing shape of me tell the story of who I am both to myself and to my family. I know everyone says that. It's beautiful words that people say on social media and on Mother's day; I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, be-a-Queen self-love and whatever, but I finally understood it and accepted it. My body can grow babies. It can feed them and keep them alive. My hands create and nurture and cook and haul and pull and do a million other necessary things. My shoulders have borne the weight of the world for my children. It is where they rest their heads and fall asleep or cry or laugh or sit for a better view of the world. I am unembarrassed by my strength, the size of my shoulders, the pace of my stride, or the space I take up, and I thank God for the life that has been given to me.

This isn't to say I am spending time in front of the mirror appreciating me. It's not the opposite of my teenage years, and I'm suddenly reveling in this newfound woman-body-love. Rather, I no longer care. It's not a focus of my life to focus on my body. It exists and it functions. It was given to me by God and molded by my experiences, but it's no longer my daily obsession. Living here on the farm, almost five years into the journey and it's the first time in my life that I wished I weighed more. Months of hauling dirt, digging holes, carrying bags of feed and bales of hay, laying down bricks and scooping out pens--and I have discovered that being small isn't very useful on the farm. I wish I was bigger and heavier and stronger so I could match my husband's pace, and we could chip away at that ever increasing to-do list on our refrigerator. He always tells people that he's the farmer on the weekends, but I'm the one full-time, and I hope I am living up to those words.

Look at Papa, just hauling 50 lb. bags of feed with one hand like it's nothing.

At times, I feel like the tortoise in the "Tortoise and the Hare" because I work slowly. In the time it takes me to put in one fence post (between the muscle work and the children asking for my attention), my husband can put in three. In the time it takes me to dig one hole for trees, he can do four or five. He's got almost a foot of height and 100 lb. advantage on me, plus years of construction experience and just being a natural athlete, but I still wish I could be as effective at the labor portion of the farm as he is.

I am not allowed to use this auger. It almost broke my back when it snagged on a big root.

I can't wrangle our cow, or drive T-bars all day. I can't split wood with the maul or be trusted with the chainsaw, but I can run with the bucket of grain while my husband wrestles an ornery cow, or drop posts along a fence-line that need to be put in. I can collect all the split wood and stack them high to dry, and I can prune away all the little things so the chainsaw can get in without snagging. I make a great cheerleader when my husband takes over the projects I've been chugging along with during the week. He thanks me for the headway and finishes the tasks like a pro. The girls and I give him our moral support, keeping him company and jumping in when we can, exclaiming at how strong Papa is (because he really is and it surprises me every time), and showering praise whenever we can cross something off our list.

Each of these bales of hay weighs 80-100 lbs. He can throw them all day. Every day.

I am grateful that he doesn't hold my pace against me. He is always appreciative of the progress I make, however slow. He says he catches me up on the weekends, and that we're a great tag team. We do what we can as best as we can, and can't do much more than that. The more I live this life, the more I am learning, and I am glad that he can see that. I am thankful for the work that I can do, and for the wonderful husband by my side making the journey with me.

My forever farming partner. Photo Credit: Janelle Burch @JanelleGabrielPhoto