Growing up, I was never completely comfortable with who I was or how I looked. I was never particularly popular and making friends was never an easy feat for me.

Something to do with that dreaded ‘foot in mouth’ disease which seemed to plague me from the moment I learned how to speak.

In the beginning, I was a short, stringy haired, not quite albino-looking child who tripped over her ginormous knobby knees. I then morphed into a tall, sickly thin teen with wasp bites for breasts while rocking a spiral hair-do and teased bangs. All the while wearing home made clothing my mother lovingly made for me, instead of the designer duds everyone else in my school rocked.

Nothing says “KICK ME” quite as loudly as a paisley purple ruffled shirt you mom lovingly made for your twelfth birthday.

My nicknames ranged from ‘geek’, ‘loser’, and ‘pimple’s arse’ to the more creative ‘Skinny Minny Miller’ and my personal favorite, ‘Tuna Faced Tanis.’

How I wish I could relive those junior high years. They really were the high light of my life. Heh.

Like most adults, I survived those trying years and grew up and out into the fabulous supermodel mom I am today. Mostly unscathed and slightly delusional, but hey, I survived.

With time, I grew into my body and my personality. I know who I am and for the most part, I like it. As long as I don’t read the shrink’s assessment of my personality too often.

I’m comfortable with who I am. I even like how I look most of the time, even if I do wish that my boobs didn’t fall into my arm pits every time I lay down or tickle my belly button when I run around nekkid.

(You’re jealous, aren’t you?)

Heck, I gave birth to three nine pound bowling balls kids and once weighed over two hundred pounds. It stands to reason I’m gonna have a little jiggle with my giggles.

(I’d like to point out somewhat passive aggressively my husband isn’t as good as he once was either. Without gestating live rodents in his belly.)

Do I wish I had rock hard abs and silky smooth thighs that could crack walnuts? Absolutely, just not enough to go to the gym. I’ve made peace with my body and befriended each and every dimple on my arse, the stray chin hairs that keep popping up and my unusually hairy toes.

I want my children to be comfortable within their own bodies and have the inner strength to survive their own teen-aged years of angst. I want them to be able to walk through the next few years of puberty-induced hell and come out forged stronger and better than before.

They’ll need that strength to survive reading my posts about them and my hooters when they get older. Heh.

I want my children to know that no matter how their bodies look when they’re adults, it’s alright. Which is why, I’ve never made a big deal of nudity around our house. (The things I do for my children. I mean, I totally garden topless just so my kids will have healthy self-esteem.)

I want them to know there is nothing bad or disgusting about a human’s naked body.

Unless of course, it’s that old fat person in the public pool locker room who is wriggling out of a wet and too small swim suit in the middle of the aisle and wants you to hand them a towel thereby forcing you to make eye contact with said elder and searing their nekkid arse into a permanent imprint in your mind.

Totally uncool.

It’s not like I wave my nudity around my children and prance around the house in the buff while screeching to Heart. (Not often, anyways.) As they grow older, I do have some tact. But if they wander into my room or the bathroom after I have a shower, I’m not going to cover up my girly bits either.

They’re too pretty to be contained. Heh.

I’ve talked with my kids about their bodies and my body and bodies in general, wanting them to know that as long as one is healthy and has a body that works, one is blessed. All bodies are beautiful. Except for the above mentioned locker room person. Ugh.

Sure I may have a mole here or there, or a scar, or a stretch mark, but the sum of it all makes me unique and makes me beautiful. Not supermodel, million dollar smile beautiful, but well-adjusted and not needing to wear a paper bag over my head to go shopping beautiful.

I’ll take it.

But as I stood in my closet the other day, wearing nothing but my skivvies and a bra, searching through mounds of unfolded yet clean laundry (my mother would be so ashamed), my kids wandered in to ask me a question.

I slipped on my jeans and told them it was not alright to see if my dog would fit in our dutch oven and grabbed my for my shirt. I noticed my children staring at me.

They were mesmerized by my beauty. I mean, who wouldn’t be? Snort.

“What? Do I stink or something?”

Fric looks at my boobs and then down to her own invisible breasts and asked if her boobs would be like mine when she’s older.

“I don’t know, honey. Every woman’s body is different; huge or small, they’re all hooters,” I told her honestly as I thought of my grandma’s watermelon sized boobs.

“I’m not talking about how big they will be, Mom,” she told me, sounding slightly annoyed. “I meant, will my boobs hang down like yours?”

Only if you’re lucky, I thought to myself as I pulled on my top. “How bout you talk to me about the state of your breasts once you’ve had three angry little badgers gnaw on them and suck them dry?”

“Whatever,” Fric said as she rolled her eyes. Poor thing. It must be hard to be saddled with me as her momma.

As I shooed the kids out of my closet, Frac, who up to this point had wisely kept his mouth shut, whispered to his sister in a voice loud enough to be heard across the country, “Fric, did you see how Mom’s tummy jiggled every time she moved? Weird!”

Yes, I want my kids to be comfortable in their own bodies. To accept what ever nature throws their way and to celebrate their own individual beauty and uniqueness.

In order to achieve this, I’m going to counsel them to avoid any state of undress in front of their own children’s prying eyes.

Nothing has sucked out my self-esteem (along with my youth and vitality) quite as quickly as my honest offspring.

It’s the gift they just keep on giving.

Buggers.