My old scars are catching my kids’ eyes and I don’t know what to say
Last Saturday at the community pool, I was yanking my dry t-shirt on over my chlorine-sticky skin when my 7-year-old Lila pointed straight at my side, right where the 6-inch bumpy appendectomy scar lives, and goes, “Mom, what’s that?” I froze. Literally froze, one arm still stuck in the sleeve, the smell of hot concrete and cherry popsicles hanging in the sticky air. All I could mumble was “Oh, just an old owie,” before I got the shirt pulled down and herded them both toward the car for lunch. I’ve been thinking about that split second of panic ever since, and I still don’t know why I reacted like that.
It’s not the first time it’s happened. A couple weeks before that, we were rolling out sugar cookie dough for the school bake sale, I had my sleeves pushed up, and my 4-year-old Jake grabbed my forearm, traced the thin pale scar that runs from my wrist almost to my elbow, and goes, “Did a shark bite you?” I laughed, said “Just a bad bike fall a long time ago,” and handed him a chunk of extra raw dough to distract him. Changed the subject fast, just like I did at the pool.
I’ve had both these scars for more than half my life. I don’t even think about them most days. When I’m getting dressed at home, I don’t cover them up on purpose. They don’t hurt, I don’t hate how they look, they’re just… part of me, like the way my left pinky is crooked from breaking it sophomore year of high school. But when my kids lean in and ask, all curious and open, my brain goes blank. I don’t know how much to say.
The appendectomy one is complicated. I was 19, living in a cinder block dorm that smelled like microwave popcorn and old laundry, I had a biology midterm I couldn’t miss, so I ignored the stomach ache for three days. By the time my roommate dragged me to the ER, it had burst. I almost died of sepsis, spent a week in the hospital, missed the midterm anyway. That’s a lot to drop on a 7-year-old who still has night terrors about getting sick and has to hold my hand for ten minutes after every flu shot because she’s convinced the needle will make her stop breathing. Do I tell her that? That I was stupid and young and ignored my body and ended up with this scar because of it? Will that just scare her for no reason?
The bike scar is the one that really makes me shift awkwardly. I was 16, snuck out with my best friend, we drank a whole bottle of peach vodka we stole from her dad’s liquor cabinet, I stole her mom’s beach cruiser to ride to the gas station for more Sour Patch Kids, and I crashed headfirst into a parked USPS truck. I got 12 stitches, a concussion, and a ground sentence that lasted all summer. I’m the mom who nags them every single time we get on our bikes to put their helmets on, who lectures them about never getting in a car or on a bike with anyone who’s been drinking, who says making bad choices can hurt you forever. How do I explain that this scar is the physical proof of me making a really dumb, really dangerous bad choice? I don’t want to lie to them, but I also don’t want to be a hypocrite standing on a soapbox, you know? What if Lila thinks, well mom did it and she turned out fine, so it’s okay for me to do it when I’m 16? Or worse, what if she thinks I’ve been lying to her about how dangerous that stuff is this whole time?
I grew up with a grandma who had a big gash of a scar across her cheek from a car crash when she was 22. No one ever talked about it. When I was 8 and asked my mom what it was, my mom shushed me immediately, said it’s rude to ask people about things like that. So I never did, and I spent my whole childhood feeling like I’d done something wrong just by noticing it, like scars are these secret shameful things you don’t talk about out loud. I don’t want that for my kids. I don’t want them to think curiosity about their mom’s body is rude, or that scars are something to hide.
I see all these people talking about how scars are beautiful, how they’re battle wounds you should celebrate. My friend who had a c-section posted a whole photo of her scar a while back talking about how it’s the mark of getting her kid, and that’s so lovely for her, but that doesn’t fit my scars. My scars aren’t about my kids. They’re postcards from the life I had before they existed, all the messy dumb wrong turns I took before I was anybody’s mom. I don’t want to give my kids a big heartfelt speech about body image and how beautiful scars are. That feels forced, like I’m turning a random kid question into a lesson nobody asked for.
Last night, I got out of the shower and Lila walked in to brush her teeth, and she stared at my side for a second longer than normal. I could see the question on the tip of her tongue, and I just smiled and moved out of the way so she could get to the sink. I chickened out. Again.
Jake has a scab on his knee right now from falling off his scooter yesterday, and he’s been showing it to every single person who comes to the door like it’s a Nobel prize. Kids are fine with scars, right? They get ouchies, they get marks, it’s just me overthinking this whole thing. But I still don’t know what to do next time. Do I just keep it simple, “it’s an owie from when I was young,” and leave it at that until they’re older and can handle the whole messy story? Do I tell them everything right now, even the parts that make me look like I was a dumb, reckless kid? Do I let Jake keep thinking it’s a shark bite because that’s way more fun and way less complicated?
I know it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of parenting. But I keep going back to that frozen moment at the pool, and I wonder if I’m messing this up somehow. Has anyone been here? What did you do?
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