I feel disgusting.
I grab fistfuls of my stomach and cry. Its like the tears are ripping apart my throat they're so strong but I can't stop. I hate it.
"Mama!" Baby two screams from outside the bathroom door, because anything longer than a minute means a portal must have opened in the bathroom and I've been sucked inside. I hastily wipe the tears away, lower my shirt, and open the door.
She uses the opening to her advantage and busts inside like the koolaid man smashing the door against the dryer. She smiles.
I survived the black hole.
I walk out to see baby #1 holding both baby 3 and 4. "They were crying so I picked them up but I finished my homework first because I didn't want to hold them in my room.." Kind of scary since she's only 8 and they're squirmy month old twins.
I stop then, halted by the sudden realization that I'm happy. I finally feel complete with what I have. My body gave me this.
The body I hate so much housed and raised 4 perfect babies.
It carried twins for 37 1/2 weeks keeping them snug and healthy until way past doctors thought I'd make it. My body didn't want to give them up, fought to hold them so hard an emergency c section was the only way to remove them.
It protected Reyna from the car crash that deeply bruised my stomach. My body shielded her while a car slammed into us, while the windshield smashed around us, and while the steering wheel invaded her space.
My fat did that.
My body kept Lindzy safe from every drug I ingested before knowing I carried her. It made and perfected this tiny person who ultimately saved my life even when I was actively working against it.
I'm fat, my stomach is flabby, my stretch marks have stretch marks and i'll never be what i'm "supposed" to be. But it's not about everyone else or "supposed" to be's. It's about me. Convincing myself I'm beautiful as is.
Why spend time hating something that's so amazing? Every stretch mark represents the months I spent giving my life to someone else. The hips my husband loves to hold onto cradled four babies safely. The fat on my stomach and thighs fed my children when I couldn't manage my to eat. My body is a fucking rock star and it deserves recognition not to be shoved in the back of a closet like it's something to be embarrassed by.
Hating it is stupid.
It carried twins for 37 1/2 weeks keeping them snug and healthy until way past doctors thought I'd make it. My body didn't want to give them up, fought to hold them so hard an emergency c section was the only way to remove them.
It protected Reyna from the car crash that deeply bruised my stomach. My body shielded her while a car slammed into us, while the windshield smashed around us, and while the steering wheel invaded her space.
My fat did that.
My body kept Lindzy safe from every drug I ingested before knowing I carried her. It made and perfected this tiny person who ultimately saved my life even when I was actively working against it.
How can I hate something I'm so fucking proud of?
How can I let everyone else warp my view so much that I'm spending hours at a time telling myself how wrong I am? I force myself to eat food I hate and deny food I love based on a stupid lie.
That I'm not good enough as I am.
That I need a flatter stomach.
Tighter thighs and arms.
That my stretch marks are ugly.
Stretch mark cream is directly aimed at mothers like we should be ashamed of what our children gave us, like we should change and hide every little thing that proves how fucking awesome our bodies actually are.
I call bull shit.
I'm finished thinking I'm not good enough to feel sexy. I'm finished falling into the trap of needing to change to be worth anything. Finished dressing to hide myself and cropping photos so only my face is visible. Finished being self conscious every time I leave my house. Every time I see myself.
How can I let everyone else warp my view so much that I'm spending hours at a time telling myself how wrong I am? I force myself to eat food I hate and deny food I love based on a stupid lie.
That I'm not good enough as I am.
That I need a flatter stomach.
Tighter thighs and arms.
That my stretch marks are ugly.
Stretch mark cream is directly aimed at mothers like we should be ashamed of what our children gave us, like we should change and hide every little thing that proves how fucking awesome our bodies actually are.
I call bull shit.
I'm finished thinking I'm not good enough to feel sexy. I'm finished falling into the trap of needing to change to be worth anything. Finished dressing to hide myself and cropping photos so only my face is visible. Finished being self conscious every time I leave my house. Every time I see myself.
I'm fat, my stomach is flabby, my stretch marks have stretch marks and i'll never be what i'm "supposed" to be. But it's not about everyone else or "supposed" to be's. It's about me. Convincing myself I'm beautiful as is.
Why spend time hating something that's so amazing? Every stretch mark represents the months I spent giving my life to someone else. The hips my husband loves to hold onto cradled four babies safely. The fat on my stomach and thighs fed my children when I couldn't manage my to eat. My body is a fucking rock star and it deserves recognition not to be shoved in the back of a closet like it's something to be embarrassed by.
Hating it is stupid.
So I'm not.
I'm taking back my own worth and the definition of sexy. Sexy is every woman. Sexy is real. Sexy is the unconditional love and commitment it takes to carry a child.
I am sexy.
Exactly as I am.
I'm taking back my own worth and the definition of sexy. Sexy is every woman. Sexy is real. Sexy is the unconditional love and commitment it takes to carry a child.
I am sexy.
Exactly as I am.
