I became a first-time mom this past summer at age 48, after a pandemic miscarriage in early 2021 and three years of waiting to adopt. When I finally had my baby in my arms, I vowed to myself to do everything right.
Yet when I searched for how to write a birth announcement, my hackles were immediately raised. Among the details most sites suggested I include was my baby’s weight. While I’m well aware, having been born over three months early and hovering just under two pounds (880 grams), that weight is one of the key indicators of health for newborns, I couldn’t help but think about the message that blasting this information out in a card would send.
American culture is obsessed with weight and body size, especially for women, a phenomenon that has only ramped up since I watched “Family Ties” actor Meredith Baxter-Birney star in bulimia TV movie “Kate’s Secret” in 1986. Yes, we’ve made progress in terms of plus-size and fat clothing and seeing more non-stick-thin performers on TV, in movies and on stages, but we’ve hardly conquered the issue of weight stigma.
My daughter is entering a household parented by a mom who spent much of her college years bingeing and purging. I spent the end of high school and the next few years obsessed with only eating the “right” foods; a can of chopped mushrooms was a treat I devoured without guilt. When I binged because I was always hungry, I learned how to throw up what I’d eaten to get rid of both the food and the feeling of being literally overstuffed. I’m grateful I was able to stop that obsession without doing lasting damage to my body. Last year, I lost my ex-girlfriend and best friend to long-term anorexia complications at the age of 45, a struggle she lived with for over two decades.
With all that baggage, it didn’t feel right to list my daughter’s weight. While making that decision, I realized how often I was using her weight as a placeholder for “good health” when people asked how she was doing. “She’s doubled in size!” I proudly boasted, and while true, there’s such a huge gap in how excited we are about babies growing, and how dismayed we are when girls and women do so. I started to think about how long we would speak about her size like this — when would be an appropriate age to stop telling friends, family and strangers what the scale reads? Two, three, ten?
I started to think about how long we would speak about her size like this — when would be an appropriate age to stop telling friends, family and strangers what the scale reads? Two, three, ten?
My boyfriend and I are in the process of adding art to our daughter’s nursery, a mix of inspirational messages and pieces by our favorite artists such as Frida Kahlo, Marc Chagall and Edward Hopper. I also framed her birth announcement, where she’s smiling adorably in an all-black onesie modeled on her dad’s wardrobe, looking like an artsy baby ready to pick up a paintbrush (once she learns to hold one). Her first name and date of birth are the only words beneath the photo I snapped of her. I don’t want her to see her weight listed every time she looks at it, even if it’s just a few pounds.
When I look at it, I ponder all the hopes and dreams I have for her. Some of them are, selfishly, that she pursue my interests. I want her to be a reader, whether or not she’s as much of a book nerd as me. But my biggest dream for her is that she has the opportunity to follow her own dreams, whatever they are. I want her mind to be filled with whatever she wants to focus on, whether that’s sports or art or fashion or politics or business.
What I desperately hope she avoids is wasting the countless hours I and so many others have counting calories, scrutinizing every inch of her body, wondering if she’s “too big,” and strategizing how to slim down. If I can steer her in the direction of eating a wide-ranging diet without ever dieting, I will be very proud.
That’s going to be an uphill battle, considering that the overall lifetime prevalence of eating disorders is estimated to be 8.6% among females and about 4% among males, according to a June 2020 report by the Academy for Eating Disorders (AED) and Deloitte Access Economics. Celebrity memoir podcast “Glamorous Trash” has a term, “dringo,” a combination of drink and bingo, for the incredibly common practice of stars listing their weights on the page — and so many have discussed their eating disorders.
The pressure to restrict our eating, and to always be mindful of what foods we consume, is rampant, and kids absorb those messages at home, school and from extended family, peers and pop culture.
Do I think not listing my daughter’s weight is going to solve a widespread cultural problem, or even prevent her from absorbing the ever-present message that thinner is better? No, but it felt like a step in the right direction.
Do I think not listing my daughter’s weight is going to solve a widespread cultural problem, or even prevent her from absorbing the ever-present message that thinner is better? No, but it felt like a step in the right direction.
I’m writing this in the early morning ahead of her four-month pediatrician visit, where we’ll find out her exact weight and whether she needs to move up from her current diaper size. I do care about her weight in this stage and am glad she’s thriving and a happy, hungry eater. I’m researching what her first foods will be and pondering how we can show her the role food plays in both our nutritional needs and our pleasure.