Scars or Stripes?

This morning I stood in front of the bathroom mirror after my shower, as I tend to do when my birthday is coming up. Which is probably weird. Whatever.

This time, as I looked at my two c-section scars, that little pouch of saggy, fatty skin just above the long scar (the one that shrinks over time, but always seems to hang around), and the stretch marks (turned mini craters) that appeared each time my abdomen had expanded, I was kind of glad they were there. A few years ago I wouldn’t have looked at them that way. So it’s something kind of new for me.

Instead of the “Ugh, gross.” I’d have normally sighed, I kind of, sort of, smiled a little.

(Fucking *smiled*. Where the hell did that come from? Such a weirdo.)

Ok, but the “imperfections” seem pretty perfect now. They’re reminders of what this body was once capable of. Those marks are part of what it took to get my girls here.

So, they’re perfect scars, perfect, saggy little marks peppered across my belly.

With my birthday coming up, I’m happy to be at a place in my life that I am able to admire my body for what it has created. I’ve decided not disrespect it by wishing those imperfections away.

Besides, it’s like having a few extra guests at my birthday party. Gross. Just kidding. Probably kidding.

THIS HAS BEEN YOUR TMI POST FOR THE DAY.

You’re welcome.

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