While waiting in line at the grocery store the other day a tabloid forced Evelyn and me to contemplate Hollywood’s “best and worst beach bodies” – all of whom were female. These movie stars seemed to be enjoying some relaxation in the sun…until images of their slightly sagging breasts and dimpled backsides graced the cover of supermarket trash. I don’t consider myself a prude, but ever since I had a daughter I find myself less tolerant of how the media tends to portray women. The nonstop objectification is getting a little old, don’t we think?

Even though she is barely 2 1/2, Evelyn is surprisingly observant and thoughtful. Three years ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about the racy outfit Katy Perry recently wore on Sesame Street, but now I have no tolerance for such provocative behavior (especially the kind that is directed at children). If a television commercial features scantily clad women, I change the channel. My husband and I won’t watch PG+ rated movies if Evelyn is awake. I don’t allow any popular women’s magazines in the house because the photographs establish an unrealistic standard of female beauty and perfection. It seems like there’s no escaping this harsh reality.

The problem is that when we harshly judge others, we end up harshly judging ourselves, too. I don’t want my daughter growing up believing that she isn’t good enough just as she is. Why should she have to constantly compare her body to those of her peers and movie stars and fashion models?
Grey hair…cellulite…stretch marks…wrinkles…this stuff happens to (almost) everyone, so it is counterproductive to be so worried about it happening to our own bodies. If every adult woman walking down the street has a wrinkle or two, why should I be so self-conscious of my own? I don’t want Evelyn wasting her precious time worrying about such trivial issues, and I regret that I cannot shield her from pop culture’s sneaky reach.