Parker tells me I have squishy legs. A squishy belly. A squishy butt. Squishy arms.
And you know what? She’s right. I am soft.
I noticed my body get weaker through the pandemic. I thought I had been doing pretty well, staying physical. My exertions were solo strolls through the park instead of sweaty sessions at the gym, but at least I was moving. My clothes still fit and I felt as healthy as one can hunkering down on high alert during a global health crisis.
Then I became painfully aware of my softness at a dance party chez-nous a year into Covid. I was winded 20 seconds into 99 Luftballons, bent over, panting like a soccer player who’s sprinted the length of a field instead of twisting and thrashing with abandon. I vowed to order dumbbells and Zoom into some virtual aerobics classes.
As I was about to click ‘complete purchase’ – damning the pandemic anew for a horrid reliance on online shopping – I suddenly… didn’t.
Is it really such a bad thing, I wondered. To be soft?
From a latchkey kid of the ‘80s to a fiercely independent woman in my thirties, I’ve always prided myself on being strong. Tough, even. I was strong enough to move across the country with no job, as a college graduate, believing success would be there to greet me. Strong enough to leave a loving, yet flawed, relationship that was no longer enough for me. I was strong, so strong, enduring modern dating rituals as I stared down 40 in NYC.
And being a parent requires strength on a daily basis. You need the fortitude to withstand the constant barrage of requests and not backing down on your decisions. Yes, you have to take a bath. No, you can’t have another cookie. I’m sorry you’re bored, that’s what imaginations are for.
Beyond the banal, there are the more emotional moments. It took all my strength not to break down when Parker cried about being an only child, telling me it’s not fair that she doesn’t have anyone to play with. Another night, when she sobbed that she wanted to be a kid forever so that she would never have to leave me and Andrew, I smiled, intent on conveying resilience instead of the well of devastation flooding me inside
And though it’s now a distant memory, it required strength during the pandemic when the sirens relentlessly sounded off outside our apartment, and we were trapped inside, my husband, sick and quarantining in the bedroom. The three of us unsure of what exactly was happening and if he, and we, were going to be okay.
Thankfully we were. We toughed out the onset of Covid, and the years that followed. And we evolved, slowly absorbing a changed life.
Now out of it, and in a changed body, I wonder if my squishy arms aren’t a reminder. Something to be proud of.
Living with uncertainty demands being flexible instead of rigid. Acceptance instead of denial. Soft as much as strong.
I’m back to yoga, if only once a week. I manage some lunges and curls a few times a week. I still get out for my morning walks. I take my health as a middle-aged mom seriously.
But I’ve also stopped lamenting the lack of tone in my triceps. I try to revel in my legs’ robustness instead of dwelling on their slightly expanded roundness. And as my body grows slacker with age, I’m also letting down my guard and letting go of the self-incrimination. I’m letting Parker see the full picture, no defensiveness, artifice or shame.
When she pokes and prods now, she does it more as a joke. “Squissshhhyyyy!!!” She’s seen me come to embrace and laugh about the description rather than be startled by it. I rather like to envelope her in my softness. To show her the strength of my love.