I hate my body. I hate the marks that keep me from feeling attractive. I hate the floppy skin that keeps me from wearing the clothing I like. I hate the way my saggy boobs look in lingerie. I hate the way my limp stomach gives me a muffin top in my favorite jeans.
I don't feel beautiful. Wait, forget beautiful. I don't even feel slightly cute. I avoid eye contact with the huge, laughing mirror after a shower. I rush to find baggy clothes that I can hide in.
Will I ever like my body again? Nope. Am I ever going to be comfortable while naked again? Yeah right. Would I trade my stretch marks for a flawless belly like I had? Absolutely. Is it a huge struggle to accept what I look like after 3 babies? Obviously. Is it a mountain I have conquered? No. Is it a conflict and sacrifice that I willingly accept? Yes.
I accept my body for what it looks like now because there are 3 tiny bodies that I carried for 9 months. It is true, I could have my perfect body back, but would I take it over those 3 tiny smiles? No freakin' way. I did 'sacrifice' my body when I got pregnant. But was it a real sacrifice? Is it not something that I can get over? Is it not something that is worth the change? I can buy new clothes. I can work out. I can realize and remember that I am important, no matter what my body looks like. Heck, I can buy a push up bra and save money for a tummy tuck if I want to. My stretch marks do not define who I am or what I'm worth. They do not take my beauty away. They don't make me undesirable. They make me a mother. They make my dreams come true. My dreams of 3 brilliant smiles and happy little girl giggles.
It is because of one of these happy smiles that I am able to write such words. It is a scene that I will vividly remember for the rest of my days.
On August 14, 2013, I was 2 days past due with my 3rd baby. I had just finished my shower and was doing my usual hurried routine of applying lotion to my very sore belly. I remember thinking that I just wanted to get it over with and get my shirt back on. I was so nervous that somebody would walk in and see my ugly belly or notice my flabby thighs.Suddenly, the door shut. I felt that familiar panic wash over me because there was nowhere to hide. I was slightly relieved when it was my 3 year old who came into the bathroom. She walked over to my side and stood quietly for a moment. Then, she reached up and gently stroked the large, painful stretch marks on my side. Her innocent words made me choke up.
"They're so pretty, Momma."
My instant thought was, "No, they aren't, but you are."
