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I was seven years old when I first had the thought that I was fat.

SEVEN.

I was a silly incident, really. My second grade teacher offhandedly told me to suck in my belly so she could get past the row of desks. I went home that night and cried and cried to my mother that my teacher said I was fat. I’m fairly sure that poor, unsuspecting teacher who didn’t even mean anything by her comment was the recipient of some mother-bear wrath the following day.

Around the same time, for whatever reason, the kids in the neighborhood all decided I was fat too and felt the need to remind me of this constantly. I believed them and truly thought I was obese from about second grade to sixth grade. Looking back, it’s really kind of a wonder I didn’t end up with an eating disorder.

I look back at photos of myself from those days and, while I was certainly not THIN, I was by no means overweight. Actually, what really kills me now is that, when I look at the old pictures of myself, I can plainly see I had an athletic build. My mother probably tried to tell me this then and I’m sure I didn’t listen because all I could hear were the voices of my friends.

When I was 12, I started taking gymnastics and discovered I was pretty good at it, especially for someone who started six years later than all the other girls in the class. The gymnastics teacher told my parents I was built to be a gymnast and offered me a spot at a training camp one summer. (life mistake #1,343, by the way, was refusing to do this, but that is another story altogether)

The era during which I did gymnastics was the first time I think I ever really began to have any positive feelings about my body. I can actually say I started to like the way I looked and respect what my body was capable of.

Then, just when things were going well, along came puberty, which was my own personal living nightmare. Really. I think I was the only girl I knew who was NOT thrilled about the idea of growing boobs and wearing a bra. Despite my unhappiness about it and determination it would not happen to me, they grew anyway, and I spent the next three years wearing baggy shirts to hide them.

When I think of all the time I wasted back then being dissatisfied with my body, I want, more than anything, to go back in time and reassure my younger self, “Really! You are okay! And also? All these undernourished skinny girls you think you want to look like? Most of them aren’t going to look like that twenty years from now. Wait until you see them on Facebook when they’re 35 and have had two kids! Girlfriend, stop worrying, put on some cute clothes and just go run and jump and flip and climb and try to be kind to yourself. Also, try not to fall victim to the hairsprayed bangs phase. You'll thank me later."

I look back now in disgust when I consider that children the age my oldest son is right now were able to have such a profound effect on how I would see myself for the next twenty years of my life. I also wonder, somewhat fearfully, what other children are saying to my kids right now that is going to negatively shape their thoughts and opinions about themselves forever.

Today, at 35, having been pregnant and given birth three times, I can say I have a new respect for my (now REALLY ridiculously imperfect) body. I still don’t love it as much as I should; but even I have to admit that successfully growing three entirely brand new people from two cells is a pretty amazing accomplishment, nevermind the physical changes that I watched my body go through to produce, house and nourish an entire other person for nine months at a stretch.

Pregnancy was immersion therapy for me, in a way. There was a feeling of total liberation to be a helpless bystander in all of that -- completely at the mercy of my body and the hormones and the process in general. Really, what else could I do but stand back and marvel at it all while simultaneously being just a bit horrified at the lack of control I had over the situation and feeling slightly like one of those sponges you throw in water that grows to 20 times its size overnight.

Even now though, having experienced that and being completely amazed and in awe at all of it, I’m ashamed to admit it’s *still* nearly impossible for me to look at my body and see beyond my physical imperfections. In the mirror, I can only see what’s wrong, not what’s right.

My stomach has never been flat EVER and those three babies pretty much sealed the deal that it never will be, no matter how many crunches I do. Ironically, my backside is *completely* flat, something for which I routinely curse my mother’s genes. My upper arms are disproportionate and look like they belong on someone three times my size or on a body builder (I blame mom for this too); and don’t even get me started on the stretch marks on my hips and boobs from the shock my body underwent during my pregnancies when I gained a pound a week for the first 23 weeks every. single. time.

I am slowly trying making peace with the things I can't change and trying to be kinder and gentler to myself. When I am somewhat successful at this, I am able see all these things for what I know they are -- badges of honor, reminders of a life’s journey and milestones, and family traits passed down. Together, I know they are a part of what make me uniquely me and they tell my story.

Other days? I just can’t drown out the voices of those kids from my childhood.

I used to think this was just me. As I have gotten older, however, I’ve started to realize just how consistent certain parts of the human experience are. Now I think... no, I don’t think, I KNOW... everyone around me has these voices in their head too -- voice that berate and belittle them, that tell them they too fat, too thin, too short, too tall, not enough this, not enough that, just plain NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I find myself wondering now what I said to other kids years ago that they carry with them to this day.

My eight-year-old son just in the last year has become increasingly self-conscious that he is small for his age, something he never even used to notice. Then, one day, he started coming home from school telling me his classmates told him he was the size of a kindergartner. This year, they tell him he is too small to play well on a team at recess. One child feels the need to remind him on an almost daily basis that he is the smallest child in the class. It breaks my heart because he never thought twice about his size until other people pointed it out.

We do our best to remind him of all the things he is good at despite his size. We have shown him athletes who have excelled even though they are small. Our words seem to make him feel better now, but I wonder how long that will be true?

I wish more than anything I could protect my children from people who would set out convince them they are not good enough, but I know that’s impossible. At some point, the opinions of their peers will hold more value than the opinions of their mom. It would be nice if they could grow up always feeling that they are perfect just as they are; but there will always be someone in their world who will tell them they are not.

I can only hope that they reach a point in their lives where they have the confidence to unapologetically be who they are and to be proud of the way they are made, the whole package, imperfections and all. Then again, I’m certainly not there yet myself and I don't even feel like I'm close. So maybe it's all just part of a journey that takes an entire lifetime to complete.

Which reminds me, my grandmother called me the other day to wish me a happy birthday. "35" she said, mulling my age over. She sighed. "I wish I were 35 again, but could still know everything I know now."

That made me wonder what my 84-year-old self would tell my 35-year-old self. I imagine it would sound something like, "Stop being so self-conscious. Not everyone in the Safeway is staring at your shirt the baby got food all over this morning. I promise. Your stomach is not as gross and unworthy of sunlight as you think it is. Don't be so hard on yourself. Put on some cute clothes, and go run, jump, climb and flip with the kids while they aren't embarrassed to be seen with you. Oh and don't buy into the skinny jeans fad. You'll thank me later."

My 84-year-old self is wise. I should probably listen to her.