In an age where unrealistic beauty standards and airbrushed images saturate media platforms, one mother’s bold decision has ignited a fierce debate. Instead of following what everyone else thinks, she did something empowering and accepting. She painted stretch marks on her daughter’s doll.
Kate writes books for kids.
Kate Claxton, is a talented author dedicated to inspiring children. Among her notable works is the multi-award-winning picture book, “My Mum’s a Tiger!” Crafted with love and a profound understanding of the challenges faced by many, Claxton created this heartfelt story as a cherished gift for her baby’s first birthday.
Little did she know that her creation would transcend personal boundaries and resonate with countless individuals around the globe. “My Mum’s a Tiger!” serves as a powerful reflection of the experiences of numerous real-life people who grew up being told that their scars, stripes, spots, and so-called ’flaws’ should be concealed.
She has body-inclusive dolls for her kids at home.
Claxton not only writes empowering books but also practices what she preaches in her own home. Recognizing the importance of body inclusivity and normalizing the beauty of individuality, Claxton provides her children with body-inclusive dolls. As much as she adores her acclaimed work, “My Mum’s a Tiger,” which beautifully embraces tiger stripes and other unique features, Claxton understands her daughter’s fascination with dolls and their ability to be dressed and undressed.
Consequently, she took it upon herself to modify one of these dolls, adding the very stripes that so many people cover up. Claxton believes in embracing differences and encourages others to do the same, offering a poignant line from her book: “Let’s take what makes us different and instead of trying to hide, let’s be more like animals and wear our marks with pride.”
Some people criticized her for painting the dolls.
Inevitably, not everyone embraced Kate Claxton’s initiative of painting the dolls. But Claxton takes pride in the fact that her Barbie craft session sparked conversations and stirred up reactions. However, she acknowledges that reading the comments can sometimes be disheartening, particularly when encountering individuals who completely miss the point.
Among the critical comments, one person questioned the motive behind painting the dolls, asking, “Why make young girls worry more about their bodies? I’ve got no stretch marks, so maybe it would be better to teach them about being positive rather than negative about their bodies.” Another comment echoed a similar sentiment, stating, “Why make girls worry more all the time? I had three kids and no stretch marks. Make them think positive.”
She doesn’t listen to the mean comments.
Despite encountering some less-than-supportive remarks, Claxton chooses to scroll past those comments, refusing to let them overshadow the positive impact and meaningful discussions her efforts have generated. While acknowledging these differing viewpoints, Claxton remains committed to her mission of promoting positivity and fostering a healthy body image in children.
Another mom that received a lot of attention for her unique parenting style was actress Kristen Bell. Known for her refreshing approach to raising her children, Bell brings a combination of compassion, empathy, and open-mindedness to the table. In a candid moment on her podcast, Kristen Bell openly shared a personal anecdote about her daughter’s developmental journey, revealing that her daughter wore diapers until the age of 5.
Preview photo credit reallyratherwild / Instagram
I Invited My Friend Over, and His French-Speaking Skills Uncovered a Shocking Family Secret
When Chad’s French in-laws come over, he invites his friend, Nolan, along — to keep him company while Camille and her parents converse in French. While they have dinner, Chad discovers that Nolan understands French and reveals a family secret.
My wife, Camille, is as French as they come. We met at college when she was an exchange student studying International Politics, and we’ve been together ever since.
Camille’s parents live in France but visit us twice a year. I’ve learned a few odd words and phrases in French, but the language has yet to stick with me.
Other than mon chéri or various dishes from French cuisine, I don’t know much. Now, my in-laws are around, and it’s only been four days.
So, I decided to invite my friend, Nolan to have dinner and meet Camille’s parents. That way, I would also have someone to talk to.
Now imagine this:
We’re all sitting at the table, enjoying our bouillabaisse. Nolan and I talked about an audit at work, and Camille and her parents were happily chatting in French.
Everything seems fine, right? Wrong.
While mid-conversation about work, Nolan’s face goes as white as a ghost, and he nudges my arm firmly with his elbow.
“Go upstairs and check under your bed. Trust me,” he whispers urgently.
My first instinct was to laugh it off — it made no sense. But one look at his wide eyes told me that this wasn’t a joke.
“Excuse me,” I said to the table. “I’ll be right back.”
I reluctantly shuffled to my bedroom, feeling like I was stepping into some strange French noir film. I picked Camille’s silver silk robe off the floor and bent to look under the bed.
My heart was beating ridiculously fast like I was about to have a heart attack. But there it was — a lone black box.
I opened the box with shaky fingers, going through the contents quickly — I didn’t know if Camille would come looking for me. Then, toward the bottom of the box, was a series of photographs of Camille, wearing next to nothing.
My heart pounded harder and nausea rose through my body.
What have I just stumbled upon? I asked myself.
As I was about to put everything back, the world turned black.
It must have been hours later when I woke up in a hospital ward, surrounded by empty beds. The harsh light glared down on me as my eyes adjusted to the change of venue and the sharp smells of detergent.
“Woah,” I mumbled, my throat raw.
That’s when I noticed that Nolan was sitting next to me, his head propped up by his arm.
“You passed out in your bedroom, mate,” he said. “What happened?”
Then, it all came back to me. Camille’s box under the bed, my insatiable curiosity mixed with an overactive heart rate brought on by a panic attack.
But I did get a glimpse into the box. It turned out to be my own Pandora’s Box. There were incriminating photos of Camille, love letters to a man named Benoit, and little trinkets, all piecing together a tale of betrayal.
It turns out that Camille was hiding an affair.
“You were taking forever,” Nolan said. “So, I followed you, and I found you passed out on the floor. I closed the box and pushed it back under before calling Camille and an ambulance.”
“How did you know?” I asked, thinking about the warning Nolan had given me.
“I did French throughout high school, Chad,” he said. “While talking, I understood that Camille said something about hiding everything under the bed. I’m sorry.”
“Where’s Camille?” I asked.
“At the cafeteria, she said she needed to stretch her legs. So, she went to get coffee.”
I put my head back and thought of the letters that my wife had been receiving.
I got discharged the following day, and Nolan drove me home. Camille fussed over me, making me a healthy juice and ensuromg that I was okay. But of course I wasn’t. Nothing was okay.
That afternoon, I had to set the record straight. I couldn’t look at Camille and feel what I had felt before.
“I can’t continue in this marriage,” I said when Camille brought me a juice.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I know about the black box under the bed.”
Camille turned pale.
“I can explain,” she said, jumping up.
“I saw more than enough, Cami. I don’t think your version of an explanation would change that.”
“Just listen,” she said. “My parents set up the meeting with Benoit. They wanted me to be with someone French — to have completely French children.”
I looked at her, wondering how she expected me to sit there and listen to more.
“So, after they arranged it,” she continued. “I met him. And we hit it off, and our friendship grew.”
“I want a divorce. Immediately,” I said, not wanting to listen to anything else.
Camille made a fuss, hurling accusations of me snooping and invading her privacy. She threatened not to sign the divorce papers when they came, but I told her that there was just no love left in our marriage after what she had done.
“Give me another chance,” she pleaded.
But I didn’t want any of it.
The divorce process lasted a few months, and Camille contested everything — from the house to spousal maintenance — and she even wanted me to pay for her tickets to France every year. I refused everything except the house. I didn’t want to be there anymore anyway. I’m living in a bachelor pad closer to my office now.
I’m heartbroken, sure. But at least now, I’m not living a lie. And that’s liberating.
I’m also grateful to Nolan for telling me the truth and staying by my side through the divorce.
Now, I wonder if Camille will end up with Benoit or not — I know her parents will love it if she does.
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