Despite my best self-love efforts, these words will likely haunt me for months, probably even years, to come. At the time, I was five weeks postpartum, my newborn strapped comfortably to my chest while my two older children traded off grabbing my husband and I’s hands. It was our first big vacation as a family, something we’d all been looking forward to for months. The first stop on our vacation was something my husband and I had made an annual occurrence: the Daytona 500.
While showing the kids the fabulous world’s first motorsports stadium, we arrived at a spot where the kids could take a step out from the concourse and be near the seats to see just how far we’d walked from our own seats. There, we were greeted by an older male employee of the Speedway. He kindly told the kids to pose for a picture as he stepped in to join them. Such a nice man, I thought. But then, in an instant my first impression was crushed and my opinion of this man changed drastically.
Amidst the noise of the crowd, his first statements weren’t exactly clear. I believe he thought I was pregnant until my husband mentioned that we’d just added another to our family. But then he must have noticed my chest because he asked my husband about the baby beneath the straps, to which my husband proudly responded, “that’s our new little one. She’s five weeks old.” I wish I had had the ability to turn my hearing off right there so I didn’t have to hear the man’s reply. “Oh, well then, she needs to trim herself up a little bit don’t she?” he said as he smiled at me, moving his hands up and down as if he were drawing my curves in the air.
Disbelief. Shock. Complete outrage. He had really just said what I think he said. He had just been informed of the freshness of our baby and how close I had been from delivery, and yet the hurtful, unnecessary words had still spewed like vomit from his disgusting, unfiltered mouth.
At first, embarrassment flooded my veins. I grabbed the hands of my two older children and scurried away from his view as fast as their little legs could move. I wanted nothing more than to put on a baggy shirt and cover the rolls of extra pounds left behind by three full-term pregnancies in less than six years.
As the moments passed, I grew angry, livid, in fact. Tears welled in my eyes both from sadness and pure rage. I was angry that someone, anyone had had the guts to say those things aloud, right to my face, not only in public, but also in front of my children. I was even more angry that that person was a man and that he was working at the very event that I had looked forward to attending year after year.
But, I was most angry with myself. I was angry that I had allowed someone to speak to me in such a degrading, heartless manner without giving so much as a glare or one finger reply. I was angry that my daughter had witnessed me shudder away from the cruelty when she should have witnessed me giving that man a piece of my mind. I was angry, too, that my son had witnessed a man treating a woman that way as if it were acceptable. It isn’t.
I should have said something, done something, anything to make that man retract his words and never even begin to think of insulting someone like that again. Since that day, I’ve replayed those few moments in my head over and over and over, trying to plan a response in case that ever happens again. I’ve thought of so many things I could’ve, should’ve said. But the truth is, there are so many, too many, things to be said.
So here’s a little food for thought:
I don’t know how many of you have attended a NASCAR race, but typically, the kinds of people that attend those events aren’t the same kinds of people that run marathons and eat salads everyday. So if he felt comfortable shaming me in front of my husband and children at an event like that, then how many other women has he insulted as if it’s an appropriate way to treat others? Probably far more I think.
& how many of those women responded like I did and immediately ran from the situation without saying or doing anything? Too many, obviously.
& since he was clearly comfortable with his abusive words, what other forms of abuse has he been comfortable executing? I’m not sure I want to know.
& if men carried the babies, would it be socially acceptable to question or even bring the slightest attention to their waist size, especially so soon after giving birth? Probably not.
So would he have said those things to a fellow man? Would’ve he had the audacity to publicly, blatantly degrade and disrespect a fellow male? Probably not.
What matters more than my waist size is the health of my body. I may have extra pounds following me around, but my body has successfully produced three precious babies. Situations like this make me feel lucky to have the power to raise those babies into kind, caring individuals and ensure that they never intentionally hurt or embarrass anyone the way this man did.
So today, one day after International Women’s Day, I look at my children and I feel proud and beautiful, and mostly I feel grateful to have had the ability to bring new life into this world. I look at my fellow women, of varying shapes and sizes, and I can't help but feel an immense inner strength as we stand together in solidarity to ensure our voices are not only heard, but respected.
