With our bellies going from flat to basketball sized in a matter of months our skin is stretched to its absolute limit. Some of us get them worse than others, some are lucky enough not to get them at all.
Before I delivered my son, I only had one stretch mark due to my pregnancy and it was tiny. I had plenty due to going through puberty at record speed. My poor hips will never be the same. I was just waiting til it got worse. I knew there was no way I'd get lucky enough to escape with only one. And I was right.
After I delivered and was finally able to get up and look at myself in the mirror, I saw them. Dozens of little pink lines on either side of my belly button and over both hips. I hated them.
They felt gross and made my stomach look like a washboard. They itched. I wished they would just go away. I didn't need another reminder of how my body had failed me.
And then, as I was laying in bed last night unable to sleep wondering if Caiden was doing okay at the hospital, I realized something. They really are battle scars and I shouldn't be embarrassed by them. I should embrace them.
They prove to me and the world that I was able to create life. I was able to carry my child long enough to survive out in the world. My body may have given up early, but it held on long enough to ensure he'd make it. At night when I can't physically be with him and show him how much I love him, I can look at them and remember what I've sacrificed to give my son a promising future.
A child touches your heart and spirit and you often can't tell if a woman has had a child when they're not with her. Our belly buttons are proof we came from our mothers, she left her mark on us. My stretch marks are the visible mark my son has left on me, they are the physical evidence he left behind. I love them, even when they start to fade they will always be there as evidence of what I went through, what we went through together.
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