Last week, gossip rag Radar Online leaked “insider” intelligence about the personal trainer Kim Kardashian reportedly hired for 2-year-old daughter North West.
“[Kim] wants [North] to be a perfect physical specimen, and she thinks it’s perfectly normal to want to get North in shape at such an early age,” said the alleged insider.
Kardashian apparently now has “several fitness gurus on her payroll” to offset the effects of her latest pregnancy, while keeping her toddler in tiptop condition.
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The baby fitness revelation shocked almost no one. Maybe that’s because Kardashian is the best-selling author of the ultimate picture book … of selfies. Or maybe it’s because her concern over baby body aesthetics simply mirrors our own.
“Mommy and Me” fitness regimes are not new. Self-conscious mothers, desperate to lose the baby weight as quickly as celebrity/humanly possible, have been slinging their infants to hybrid day care/Pilates classes for years. The emphasis on sculpting and toning used to be placed more on Mommy and much less on her (mini) Me. Though, today, it seems our increasingly image-conscious society is beginning to expect as much physical perfection from its babies as it demands from their mothers.
Last month, Erin Ashenhurst wrote about what it’s like to work out with “Nine Pounds of Uncooperative Flop,” or her 6-week-old son, for Slate. Her piece navigates the visceral, self-effacing experience of exercising in a room full of women desperate to make peace with their new “mom bods” while their little ones, “oblivious to societal pressure,” look on. Ashenhurst notes it was impossible not to notice the other bodies surrounding her - not just the diversity of mom bods, with their faded tattoos and perspiration-streaked spray tans - but all the roly-poly baby bodies, too.
Of her own son, Ashenhurst writes, “He is unaware that he, and all the babies here, are constantly being measured, judged. I am given a percentile, questioned about his abilities, and met with frowns or nods. His stats are written down in the doctor’s files. He is 'robust,' said the doctor. 'Oh, those rolls,' said the ladies at the park. 'What a chunky monkey!' they cooed.”
Ashenhurst’s observations strike a latent nerve. Even though the act of body shaming mothers runs rampant in our culture, it is still (at least generally) regarded as highly gross and inappropriate. Why is it, then, that none of us bats an eye before body shaming babies? How is it those roly-poly, chunky monkey jokes are not only acceptable but also so prevalent they’ve become the default way to acknowledge young children?
For the most part, baby body shaming is packaged and delivered as seemingly innocent teasing and sometimes even praise. A few days ago, a friend posted an Instagram photo of her sassy 1-year-old posing in a teal tankini at the beach. One follower immediately commented, “I wuv those chubby wubby thighs.” I have little doubt this woman meant no harm. And yet her “chubby wubby” thigh remark rubbed me the wrong way.
Why do we project our body shame onto babies? Is it because they can’t talk back? Is it because we think they won’t remember? Are babies really “oblivious to societal pressure,” as Ashenhurst wants to believe?
Earlier this year, the Internet raged over a pair of “I Hate My Thighs” and “Love Me For My Leg Rolls” onesies sold by Wry Baby. Like most snarky novelty T-shirts designed for adults, the onesies were conceived as a joke, though a "Today" show poll revealed 56 percent of its audience was offended by what they considered a baby clothing faux pas. However, Matt Lauer said he was “shocked” by people’s sensitivity. Savannah Guthrie chimed in, “I thought it was kind of funny, as the mother of a little 7-month-old with very deliciously chunky thighs.” Tamron Hall added, “It would only be shaming if the baby could read it.”
Not everyone agrees.
Brea Tremblay weighed in on “The Serious Business of Fat-Shaming Babies,” for The Daily Beast. Though Tremblay’s initial reaction was to laugh off the pseudo self-deprecating baby garb most agree was clearly intended to be a joke, her opinion changed after further reflection jarred some shameful childhood memories:
“And then, like a bolt of lightening from a feminist god, I remembered a childhood anecdote. Apparently, when I was 2 years old, my aunt looked at my chubby baby body and told my mom, 'Oh, Kathy, how tragic. She has your thighs.'”
Though Tremblay was too young to understand the criticism at age 2, it would haunt her well into her adult life.
“When I was 5, I told Mom that I thought the softness around my belly was cute. She burst into hysterical tears in horror. We started dieting together, exercising together. Every time I wanted a cookie, I had to ride my bike to earn it. Whenever I wore a bathing suit, she’d examine me and declare that my thighs were my problem area, just like her and I could defeat them if I worked hard enough. I would be better, she said, if I could just eat less and exercise more.
“It’s still a whisper in the back of my mind when I look in the mirror. I have other, more rational thoughts that are louder and stronger—I am healthy and strong and I’m not ruining my day or my life over some flub, but that whisper is oddly pervasive.”
Tremblay concludes “adorable chubby baby thighs” are “always a good thing.” I agree. Yet, for her, they were deemed unacceptable, as they were deemed unacceptable for so many other men and women with dismally similar childhood narratives. And so I question whether our obsession with baby bodies is as benevolent as it might seem.
To me, it appears we’ve designated babyhood as a sort of chubby Rumspringa that’s guilt-free so long as it doesn’t extend past its expiration date. Perhaps, when we crack “roly-poly” jokes about babies, we’re really implying it’s unacceptable to become roly-poly adults. To me, gushing over a baby’s “deliciously chunky thighs” sounds a lot like saying “Chunky thighs are cute for now, but you’d sure as hell better grow out of them.”