“Girls your age should be slim. Boys won’t like you anymore.”
I’ll tell you what finally woke me up.
It was a Thursday night, and Jenna had made a salad the size of a hubcap. Next to the salad, someone had set out a plate of cookies.
Liz reached for one. Her hand hovered, and then her eyes flicked to Jenna.
She pulled her hand back and tucked it under her thigh.
Liz reached for one.
Jenna kept chewing her lettuce with a pleasant little smile.
But I saw my daughter, my kid who once ate an entire birthday cake pop in one bite and called it “research,” check a face for permission to eat.
My stomach dropped.
And I was angry, though not yet at the right person. Mostly I was angry at myself.
That night, in the bedroom, I spoke to Jenna.
Mostly I was angry at myself
“Jen, I need you to stop with the food comments. Liz looks wonderful. She doesn’t need any of that.”
Jenna’s face went tight for half a second.
“Oh, honey, I’m only trying to help.” She sighed. “But all right. I understand. I’ll stop.”
She kissed my cheek. And I thought, There. Handled.
