The Bag Watcher

Growing up, my Mum was always the bag watcher.

She had everything you could possibly need. From snacks to bandaids, moisturiser to a full buffet of sandwiches with every filling from here to f*cking Timbuktu. She would even cut watermelon into shapes that were entertainment all on their own.

In my house now, I talk to my children about making things with love. It is a skill I learnt from my Mum. To this day, I can still smell her love in freshly cleaned sheets and see it in the hem she recently sewed to shorten my favourite dress.

As an adult, I remember the distant wave Mum would give from the sand bank while my brother and I splashed in the shallows at the beach. She would be wearing a beautiful sarong, covered from head to toe, with a distinctly wide brimmed hat. She never missed a single detail. You could always count on her to reapply sunscreen every thirty minutes.

The Inheritance We Did Not Need

My mum never learnt to swim. After being thrown in the deep end of a pool as a child and told by her family to “work it out”, she was left without the life skill of knowing how to swim and traumatised.

I remember one summer hearing, “No one wants to see this body in bathers.” Getting her in the water was never on the cards. She spoke about her body with such negativity.

My Nan was much the same. It seemed to be a family legacy. A baton passed from woman to woman.

But I never understood it. All I ever saw was my Mum. Beautiful in every way.

Some of my earliest memories of body conversations included the branding words, “You come from a long line of short, round women.” As if to say, if you ran an analysis of my DNA, you would probably find it buried in there somewhere.

As a child, it became a core belief that I carried forward. That no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you will always be short and fat.

Stepping Off the Bench

Recently, on a particularly hot day, my husband and I took our girls to the local indoor pool. Standard protocol. Dad cannonball’s in. I order some overpriced hot chips. And as per the regular programming, I take my seat with the bags and watch as our girls squeal and splash. The next generation bag watcher.

And in that moment it hit me. I felt the heaviness in my heart, the weight of being a Mum who’s present in every moment, but absent in creating the memories. 

So, I stood up. I stripped off my sarong and jumped in.

My insecurities were left on the bench right next to the bag.

We splashed. We dove for sinkies. We laughed and laughed. I couldn’t tell you what a single person in there was wearing. And I suspect no one remembers what I was wearing either.

How freeing. A weight off my shoulders.

Memories Are Made in the Water

For all the wonderful moments my Mum created for me, I too am learning that memories aren’t made from the bench, watching the bags.

I wish love conquered self doubt for women and their beautiful bodies.

Imagine if we cared a little less about wobbling bums… So many bags would go missing, as Mums were too busy creating memories to care. 

So. Leave your baggage behind. Get into the water. Love all your bits and go make some memories.

xo Bonnie