Truth is...

For me, blogging is an interesting beast. 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.

So anyway, it's a challenge and the more serious posts are tougher to navigate. But, whether anyone else wants it or not, sometimes I want it said so I can feel it later.

Here is the truth: I hated being pregnant (Shocker, right!? Since I have given birth to 4 beautiful babies). There were many unpleasant things: I waddled about, for instance. And I puked a lot. And I peed a lot. And sometimes I peed when I was not planning on peeing. I was always miserable. And I complained. A lot. Pregnancy is not necessarily lady-like.

However, it is womanly. I may someday forget my own name, but I will never forget what it felt like when my kiddos moved and kicked inside of me. I was proud to stand without sucking in, tightening, pinching, hiding, or twisting myself into any of the myriad of positions women find to hide themselves in plain view. Each time, I felt as if my body-- however imperfect-- 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 lips to kiss and my fingers to stroke each cheek. My body grew as they did, and it was good.

Now, at nearly 4 months post-partum, I find myself wondering (for the final time) how to regain that sense of purpose and confidence. I love my babies, and I revel in my ability to physically care for them. I hold, carry, touch, tickle, caress, wash, snuggle, kiss, and teach. Mothering my children is a verb, and I am blessed with capability.

Now, knowing that I will never again experience pregnancy and the sense of meaning it brings; I must find a way to appreciate and treasure my body and its importance. 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 objective of my body. It is about the dialogue in my mind.

Because, you see, I am the mother of not only a 4-month-old daughter, but 6 and 3 year old princesses as well. And if I cannot restructure and redraft the words that run through my head, then someday my beautiful, perfect daughters will look at their beautiful, perfect bodies with the same terrible thoughts that I have about my own. And I cannot let that happen.