Out in the back yard in the first truly pleasant day we’ve had in what seems like weeks. Warm, not suffocatingly hot. Breezy, not muggy. Sunny, not brain-baking. We headed outside, the two year old making a beeline for her water table - which, after a week of heat wave, was what we shall call worse for wear. My nose wrinkled as I saw the assorted flotsam of a week of Ottawa in July floating in the yellow plastic basin - fallen leaves, sunken dust, god knows what else. The husband distracted her as I wiped it down then refilled it with cool, clean water, then unleashed the toddler - she attacked it with the energy of a two year old, which is to say, complete abandon and complete insanity. She immediately dove in to her elbows searching for her assortment of bright plastic cups, toy boats and watering cans. Within moments, she was soaked to the skin, which bothered neither her nor me. I retreated to the shade, a Bad Mother
Finally it was time for supper, and she reluctantly tore herself away from all the watery fun and toddled over to me, her little dress dripping. “Soaked”, she said seriously. “Yep. Soaked,” I told her. I peeled off her wet dress and leggings and put them in a soggy pile on the deck. I also noticed her diaper had also taken on a significant dose of water. Like, about 30 pounds worth. It was sagging almost to her knees. Our backyard is private, so what the hell. I peeled the sodden diaper off her and let her run.
Within seconds, she was dancing in front of the glass patio doors, shrieking at the sight of herself in the reflection. “AVERY’S NAKED!!!!” The sight of her own unclothed form was sheer delight to her.
There’s something about nudity and toddlers. Whether they like the freedom, the sensation of being completely clothing-free, the feeling of rebellion.. who knows. They just love it. But I was also very curious about her fascination with watching herself naked, her unselfconsciousness, her fascination with her body and how it worked and bent and moved. She was totally in the moment. And I couldn’t get enough of watching her enjoy it.
And then I sighed a little. I love that she loves her body. I, too, love her body. But I know there will come a time when she may not love her body, when she might just stand in front of the mirror and stare at everything with a critical eye because This is too big and That is too small and This Over Here looks funny. How long until she no longer dances and watches herself sway and studies her arms and legs and butt and the way they move but instead stares and pokes a perceived flaw in disgust? How can I help her maintain this love and fascination and reverence about her body, this miracle that grew from nothing in to Her? Without, of course, turning her into some kind of nudist or worse, without her winding up with a Facebook page filled with duckfaced topless self portraits?
Fine line, this parenting business.
Still, for now, she loves her body. Loves being naked. So I’ll indulge it. Within reason. I don’t need her streaking down Elgin street naked, now or ever.
