Here's the thing...I loathe my body. As I think a lot of women do. I hate looking in the mirror. I hate trying on clothes. I hate having to choose what to wear every morning to go to work. Everything is wrong and even though I have a closet bursting with clothes and a dresser and a half stuffed with them, I have absolutely nothing to wear.
But really, it's not the clothes. It's me.
I've lost a little bit of weight lately, and while that's great all I can do is look in the mirror and pray for the day I get my tummy tuck to come ASAP!
Some (horrible, awful, no good) people don't get stretch marks when they're pregnant. Okay, maybe they're not horrible people, but I kind of hate them. I look like I got in a really bad fight with a tiger and lost. It's gross and horrible and I shake my fist at those ugly scars. Talking with Austin the other day, I kind of had an epiphany.
I don't even remember how it happened or what was said, but my remark was "This happened as a result of carrying your child". And there it is.
Yes, my body has been ravaged. My skin is permanently scarred, my hips are even wider, I won't even go into my once awesome boobs and even my feet got bigger. My FEET for cripes sake. But when you think about what exactly my body did, it kind of seems like no big deal.
I grew a person. A living, breathing, functional not to mention an adorable little person. He grew inside of me from a tiny egg that I never gave a second thought to and my husbands, ehm, contribution which I'm sure he gives a lot of thought to. The two of us seriously came together and made...us. My red hair. His curly hair. He got the shortness from both of us.
For 9 months, that little egg that started out the size of a poppy seed grew and grew and grew and my body nourished him. My body cradled him and kept him warm and safe. Even after he was born, my body nourished him for a full year. To me, that's truly amazing. Women are total rock stars.
Honestly, I had it easy. I mean, yes I carried him and it was magical and hormonal and all, but I didn't even have to go through labor. I didn't have to physically push him out of me. He didn't feel like coming out and at already a week over due and no sign of him even attempting to drop or my body dilating or anything, the decision was made for me to have a c-section. Sometimes, I feel really cheated. Sometimes I feel like I should have had that birth experience I really wanted. But then other times, I realize how truly lucky I am to have a healthy happy baby.
Some people don't. It's a cold hard fact of life. One of those truly unfair pieces that make me angry to the core. Why? No good reason. But those women, the ones who have to suffer loss (which I'm not even going to pretend I understand or can comprehend) have the deepest scars of all. Both physically and mentally.
So I put that into perspective. And I take a step back from the mirror. I trace the lines over my belly and think about the fact that for having housed an 8 pound 3 ounce bouncing baby boy...it's not that bad. For having breastfed my child for a full year, it's okay that the girls don't have as much pep in their step. For all the complaining and whining I might do about the way my body looks the way it does right now, I'm so incredibly thankful that I have these battle scars.
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| Yep. I did that. Also, my husband helped...some. |
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