The truth about baby growing

Preface

For me, blogging is an interesting beast. Most of the time, I love it. It's a creative outlet for me, and at the same time meets my imaginary requirement that every good mom needs to scrapbook. I don't scrapbook because I'm awful at it. I blog.

Anyway, I try to make this blog an honest, real, and revealing place, but I also have boundaries. Some boundaries are safety related (not posting my address, for example) and others are for personal or even stylistic reasons. It's a balance between being cheesy and boring (my life is so AWESOME that it is AWESOMER than anyone else's and here are 8 more posts about how AWESOME I am in case you somehow forgot my level of AWESOME) and sharing intimate feelings with the world. It's like a dance, sort of. And you'll remember that I'm not a good dancer. And that's why the world knows I have a Super Cervix.

So anyway, it's a challenge and the more serious posts are toughter to navigate that dance than the ones about poop in my laundry. But, whether anyone else wants it or not, sometimes I want it said so I can feel it later.

Chapter 1

Here's the truth: I loved being pregnant. Sure, there were a lot of unpleasant things: I waddled about, for instance. And I puked a lot. And I grew a single, recurring dark hair on my chin that Love Bear refers to as my beard. And I peed a lot. And sometimes I peed when I wasn't planning on peeing. Pregnancy is not necessarily lady-like.

But it is womanly. I felt wonderful about my body for the first time since I can remember. I loved watching my belly swell and stretch with my unborn child. I may someday forget my own name, but I will never forget what it felt like when my daughter moved and kicked inside of me. I was proud to stand and be seen without sucking in or tightening or pinching or hiding or twisting myself into any of the myriad of positions women find to hide themselves in plain view. For the first time, my body-- however unperfect-- had purpose. I joyfully anticipated the need for each part. My arms to hold and rock a child. My legs to kneel as I washed my baby. My breasts to feed and my lips to kiss and my fingers to stroke her cheeks. My body grew as she did, and it was good.

And now, at nearly 4 months post partum, I find myself wondering how regain that sense of purpose and confidence. I love my baby, and I revel in my ability to physically care for her. Together, she and I slowly learn the pattern of our days. I hold and carry and touch and tickle and caress and wash and snuggle and kiss. Mothering my child is a verb, and I am blessed with capability.

I yearn to be pregnant again. (Surprised, Sweetheart? Sorry to spring it on you...) But until then-- no, not even until then. Before then, I must find a way to appreciate and treasure my body and its purpose. I must find a way to banish my nay-saying and revel in who and what I am. It is not about the size or shape or even the function of my body. It is about the dialogue in my mind.

Because, you see, I am the mother of a daughter. And if I cannot restructure and recraft the words that run through my head, then someday my beautiful, perfect daughter will look at her beautiful, perfect body with the same terrible thoughts that I have about my own. And I cannot let that happen.