Conversations with my conscience.

“Hi baby, the boys are here on speaker with me.”

“Hi Little Brother, Hi Baby Brother.”

Sweet big sister has always called brother #1 her “Little Brother” and brother #2 her “Baby Brother”.

The closeness between the three is something they have built on their own. It amazes me and fills me with pride and a love so deep that overpowers and soothes me.

So the four of us talk about our day, trying to remember snippets of life that we hold on to and share together.

“Send me a picture of them both. And you too Mommy! I want a picture of you!”

I hate having my picture taken. I see the fat I hate, I see the defects I've always had pounded into my head, I see Me.

So I take the boy's pictures, trying to capture the peacefulness of the moment. 

Little Brother, head bent, concentrating on the endless stream of texts from his “posse” of female admirers. I try to capture the moment of this boy, almost a man, taller than I am, missing his big sister, wanting her to be home “NOW!” And of course, the fuzz beginning to sprout right above his top lip.

And I try to capture the sweet, gentle child; Baby Brother, who has just discovered a lighter on the deck and is trying so hard to get his still small fingers to make a flame so he can burn a leaf. And I click away, hoping that this moment of joy is captured in the pictures I will immediately text so that Sissy can see how much we miss her, how big these boys are and how blessed I am to still be here.

“WHERE'S MY MOMMY?” is the response I receive.

And so I scramble to sit, twisting my arms and legs into knots, trying to hide the parts I hate. And I bitch and moan at all the flaws of the picture so patiently taken by Baby Brother and Little Brother loves it and clicks “send” before I can hit “delete”. Shit!

“Mom...you're so thin.” And the worry and fear and concern comes through and smacks me hard across the face through the text message. “You're so thin.” And her fear and concern grips me and shakes my DISorder and settles into the pit of my being. And I feverishly text back “No, baby, I'm not, it's the light/the shirt/the position/the time of day.”

Because I don't see “thin”.

I see fat, I see what I despise, I see a round face and a huge middle and a double chin and everything I want to hide. But her fear scares me...“You're so thin”. And I rush back inside and put on my biggest sweater and take another picture and text back, “see? I'm really not.” And pray she sees what I do.

I want to see “thin”. I want to see something that isn't clouded by years of voices. I want to see myself, without this shield that dominates my being and consumes my life whenever I try to face it. I want it to be easy. To say “I can get rid of this” and not have to struggle with yet another thing in my life.

And I have to face this. It's easier than facing the fear coming through a text from my beautiful conscience.