What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice,
And all that’s nice;
That’s what little girls are made of.

There is something about that nursery rhyme that always managed to strike a chord of insecurity within me, even when I was a little girl.  Its sing-song rhythm annoyed me, but even more than that I hated the message that a proper little girl is sugar and spice.  I know I’ve always resented its implications, because deep within me, I have always known that I am simply not that girl!  I have always been a little spunky, with a quick wit that can border on a sharp tongue.  (The old folks used to call it fresh.)

As a little girl, this verse always managed to stir my feelings of inadequacy and guilt.  Guilt because more than craving being sweet—I wanted adventure!  I buried my nose in books about little girls who did the things I wanted to do.  I read Harriet The Spy so many times that at one point I could recite paragraphs from memory.  Forget the sugar; I preferred sneaking out the back door after dinner time to sit in the alleyway separating our backyard from our neighbors’.   In my childish imagination I was a spy gathering intel for the US government.

For years I struggled with feelings of “not measuring up” or fitting the mold of what a girl/woman should be.  I wish I could say that I always accepted my differences but like many young girls today it took me a long time to like myself.  Even now, I find myself criticizing parts of my body as if they were not a part of me.  I’ll be the first to admit that I need to shed a few pounds in the name of good health, but sometimes I find myself looking in the mirror wondering, who have I become? It can seem that with each pound I’ve gained, I’ve lost a little more of myself.   So sometimes, I stand in the mirror judging myself with the harshness of a stranger.  I criticize the legs that carry me from place to place and the arms that secure the hands that help me express myself when talking or writing.  It is almost as if the nursery rhyme is plaguing me again and once more saying, “You don’t measure up.”

Sometimes we can become so accustomed to the voice of our criticisms that we find the compliments of strangers and the appreciative praise of family and friends unbelievable.  Eventually our self-talk becomes our reality and our uniqueness, beauty and attributes become hidden treasure that we must dig for in order to feel good about who God made us to be. 

This weekend I went shopping and exposed myself to the emotional hazards of the three-way full length mirror!  By the end of my spree, I felt “blahsy” and ready to drown my sorrows in any high-fat treat I could find.  The unfortunate thing is that I’ve become so used to being down on my body that I didn’t even realize the tirade I’d subconsciously launched against it. 

I kept wondering what was wrong and couldn’t figure it out until I sat down to blog.  I realize that rather than criticizing my body, I should invest my time and energy into treating it like the temple Christ purposed it to be.  I don’t have to look like Laila Ali to be beautiful.  Perfection is not a prerequisite for self-love and respect.  I owe it to myself and to God to pursue healthy habits, but when I fall short of my goals…  it is up to me to give myself a little grace.  My beauty is not something that I should ever allow anyone else to define.   Maybe some little girls are made of sugar and spice, but the beauty of a real woman goes far beyond the surface.