Once upon a time I hated my body. Everything about it. There wasn’t one thing I liked. Not one thing I could point to, besides maybe my eyes, that didn’t inspire disgust and loathing. And then I met Big Daddy and Big Daddy either didn’t see or didn’t care about my five feet high list of imperfections. He liked me. He actually more than liked me, he LOVED me. He told me I was pretty and beautiful and he showed me that they weren’t just words. My body hadn’t changed, but my list of things to hate about myself started to dwindle.
And then, I had the Princess. It was really hard to hate a body that had worked so hard to grow another person. Sure, my stomach was more pouchy than ever, which wasn’t confidence inspiring, but after being stretched to the limt and snapped back like a balloon, could I blame it. My stretch marks were battle scars, proof of a hard job done. Big Daddy still didn’t care about my imperfections. He still told me I was pretty and beautiful and besides that, the Princess loved this body. She found comfort on my lap, she didn’t care about my white legs. She rubbed my upper arms and never cringed that they sometimes wobbled. She named the parts of my face and didn’t care what my chin looked like or even how many of them there were. She didn’t care what my skin or hair looked like, or if I had bitten off my nails in a fit of nerves.
And then came Littlebit, nursed for two years. Since puberty I had a hate/hate with my breasts. I come from good, hearty peasant European stock. I’m short of leg and big of boob. I regarded my breasts with distaste for half of my life, enduring teasing (good natured and otherwise) and the nearly impossible quest for a good bra and tops that didn’t make me look like I stuffed two watermelons down my shirt. Big Daddy never minded. We joke that it’s a good thing he’s a boob man and not a leg man. And then came Littlebit, and my PITA breasts were useful. LIttlebit didn’t care about the size of my breasts. She didn’t care if they hung high, low or wobbled to and fro. She loved them. They fed her. They comforted her. They were useful and handy. They worked. It’s hard to hate something that helped grow another person from 7lbs to 25. I still have impossible quests for find comfortable good fitting bras and shirts that don’t cause the aforementioned watermelon issue,but overall, I’m at peace with them for the first time since I was 9 or 10.
Sure, I want to be healthy. I’d love to be smaller. I’d love to have arms like Michelle Obama and just ONE chin. I still think about a breast reduction after Baby Bee has finished nursing, not because there is anything wrong with my breasts, but because it would be nice to run/jog/jump were I inclined. Or ride a horse or something, but in the end, my perfections are something I can finally live with. I’m finally comfortable in my mama-skin.