The Real Me

A couple months ago we went to Family Weekend at my daughter’s school.

We had a great time.

After not being able to visit school at all the first two thirds of her freshman year, it was really nice to be able to go see her in her element, watch her swim, see her interact with her friends (and actually meet her friends) and get a taste of what life is like for her when she’s there.

After a big outdoor family lunch, one of Number 4’s friends took a picture of all of us.

Number 4 just texted it to me yesterday.

I love it so much because it captures what life with five kids is really like.

Life with these five kids, anyway.

There’s a lot of laughter and movement and silliness.

(There’s also a lot of annoying stuff living with five kids, but that wasn’t captured in this picture.)

But reality in that moment was captured.

And so was the reality of my double chin.

It’s the first thing my eyes zeroed in on.

I contemplated not sharing this picture very seriously.

Not because all the kids aren’t looking at the camera – I love that they aren’t. It’s such a great representation of so many moments we have at home.

But man, that double chin.

My first reaction is to be like, “I must have been leaning back or something because I swear it doesn’t always look like that!!!”

And then I thought about it.

Fuck it.

Just as the picture is an accurate representation of the kids in that moment, it’s also an accurate representation of me in that moment, too.

And I don’t care.

That’s the real me.

The real me has a double chin from more than one angle.

The real me has lots of wrinkles.

The real me has cellulite. Lots of it.

The real me has boobs that sag, a muffin top, thighs that rub together and stretch marks.

The older I get the more facial hair I also get.

That’s fun.

But the point is this.

I don’t care anymore.

If you can see the peach fuzz on my cheeks – or chin – in a picture, well, then you are seeing the real me.

If you are seeing wrinkles or cellulite or double chins or a muffin top or anything else,

I DON’T CARE.

It’s the real me.

I’m working on my health – I’ve gained weight and I’m not happy about it. It doesn’t feel good.

I want to get to a healthier weight.

But I don’t have time to worry about camoflauging all my imperfections and I no longer am willing to spend time stressing over the perfect picture while I’m working on myself.

Because this incredibly imperfect version of me is pretty fucking awesome.

It’s also really important, especially for my daughters, that they see me not giving a flying fuck about how “perfect” pictures of me are.

Pictures are just like life.

Sometimes you look like shit, sometimes you look halfway decent, and sometimes you look smokin’ hot.

Those smokin’ hot times are nice to catch on film.

But the times when you are surrounded by the people you care most about in the world, and you all just look really, really, really, really happy?

I’m realizing I’d take of those over a physically flawless picture any day.