Well, it’s official. I have had my first mommy accident. Cheeks started crawling. One night she took a look at the bag of Doritos and off she went. You give her a target and she’s gone! So the next morning we get up and take part in our normal morning routine. However, this mommy forgot one key element. Crawling. I forgot she could crawl. Thinking back I could slap myself for it. Honest mistakes don’t feel good at all. So I monitor her. We play all day. We have a productive day. Until dinner. I plop her down with all her fun toys and walk away for five seconds to stir our Jambalaya. And then bam. She starts crying. I run. My heart drops out of my butt. I look her up and down for boo boos. My mind races from her breaking her skull to literally poking an eye out. I latch her onto my breast and notice the bruise forming. Right at the corner of her eye. It looks like fancy make up. Cheeks crawled to the coffee table. Pulled herself up. And bonked her eye. Once we both stop crying the playing begins again. And bam. Face first into her walker. I don’t freak out this time. But she definitely felt the pain. Lessons learned. Let the parenting begin. If I know myself, and hubby at all, then I know we created a clumsy whirlwind of destruction. I’m not sure I’m ready for this!
Everyone needs a shoulder to lean on. Whether that is a physical shoulder, or metaphorical one. Some of us seek support via social media. Some are social butterflies, like me. I yearn for connection. That’s been one of my biggest struggles since giving birth. I don’t know where the mom in me ends, and the new me begins. I suppose that’s all part of this journey. I have learned that support is relative. I need support in all areas. Family. Friends. Strangers. My husband. I have spent so long being someone else’s support system it’s time I begin to seek support myself. Thank god for therapy. Thank god for social media. Thank god for my friends. Thank god for my family. Thank god for my husband. Life is hard. It sucks. And sometimes I can’t see the light at the end if the tunnel. But I lay my head down every night. Snuggled up to my sweet daughter, I kiss her cheeks, I whisper I love you. I turn around, and have my wonderful lump of a man, one whom I can’t fathom living day to day life without. And I realize, no matter how horrible today may seem. There is always tomorrow.
This is something I have been struggling with for a long time now. The female body image is so skewed. Please join me in normalizing the female body. Curves, stretch marks, cellulite and all. Thank you for reading. Peace and love to all of you!
My body tells a story now. What used to be blemish free is now a roadmap of my life. It tells the tale of conception to birth. My body has history. It has been battered. The tiger stripes are my battle scars. I don’t love them, but I am learning to. I’m learning to be proud. Proud of what I have accomplished. My body made another person. My body made my daughter.
My little stretch marks on my hips tell the tale of my body stretching, my body growing to accommodate my daughter. The ones on my stomach remind me of a time when my stomach was round, full of life. The droopy pouch, the one I hate so much, is a reminder of how full of life I once was. My breasts, heavy with milk, give sustenance to my beautiful daughter.
My body, so different than the tight nubile body I once had. My body, is so unfamiliar to me. It seems foreign. Not mine. Six months Post-Partum and I still struggle to recognize myself in the mirror. I struggle not to find the flaws. I struggle to find the beauty in myself. I may not be the skinniest woman in the world. My stomach my never lay perfectly flat again. My stretch marks are here to stay. My breasts will never be perky, as they once were.
I don’t love my body as it is now. In fact, most days I hate it. But I look at my daughter, and it is all worth it. In that moment I don’t mind if I have a slight pudge to my midsection. I don’t mind that I have stretch marks. I don’t mind that I feel like a deflated balloon when I have my daughter in my arms. Slowly but surely, I am owning my tiger stripes. Learning to love this new me. This new me is a mother. A lover. A gentle parent. This new me is an advocate. She is a fearless. This new me is a warrior.
At times I yearn for the body I once knew. I wish to flaunt a bikini at the beach. I wish to wear my clothes with pride. But mostly, I wish to regain my confidence. And I will. Slowly but surely this warrior is creeping back. Sure, life is different now. I am different now. But different is most certainly not a bad thing. In fact, different is pretty damn awesome.
If I could go back in time and tell my pre pregnancy self a few things, they would be as follows: cocoa butter does NOT work! That acid reflux that is the bane of your existence, will not go away post baby. No. It’s here to stay. Those baby blues everyone talks about, they are overwhelming. Do not look at your vagina in the mirror, no matter how much you wonder about her appearance. And lastly, be kind to yourself, and your body. You will learn more in the next few months then you ever thought you would or could. You will cry more. You will hate yourself, and love yourself. You will try to squish yourself into pants that will likely never fit again, and then look at your body, in all of its striped glory. You will cry for what used to be, and what is to come. And then you will put on your yoga pants. Smile at your baby. You will laugh as she squishes the most hated parts of your body. You will see them through her eyes. Your breasts are the most comforting place in the world to her. Your tummy is a great cushion to stand on. Your arms are her personal jungle gym. She loves your body, why shouldn’t you?