My legs are not my favorite part of my body. I remember when I was a kid and I didn’t think about these sorts of things. A friend of my mom’s said to me, “Heather, you have such nice legs!” I didn’t even know what that meant. Of course, as I grew older, I figured it out, but by then, my legs had gone through a lot. A growth spurt one summer that saw them add three and a half inches in length (and stretch marks), countless scars from bike accidents, and funky tan lines from softball uniforms left my limbs (in my opinion) not very nice anymore. So even though I lived in Southern California, I took great pains to cover up my legs. You NEVER saw me in shorts.
When Madeline was about five or six months old, I remember looking down at her legs and realizing they looked exactly like mine. The way they bent, the dimples on the knees, even the little folds behind our knees. It was such a trip to look at this tiny person and realize she possessed a mini replica of something of mine.
I loved HER legs. Every inch of them. So how could I hate my own?
You’re still not going to see me in shorts. But I’ve now learned to not care about the perceived flaws on my legs.
Annabel has the chubbiest, yummiest legs around. They are so thick my fingers don’t touch if I wrap my hands around her thighs.
She loves it when we hold her up to stand – seriously, she’ll be fussing, we’ll stand her up, and then nothing but coos and smiles. Her legs don’t look like mine (yet), but she curls her toes like I do.
I’m already telling her what nice legs she has (even her feet).