This past Saturday, I went to the store to buy new clothes. I grabbed a few dresses, a shirt and a pair of jeans and went into the fitting room to face the dreaded and unmerciful full length mirrors.
For the first time in a very, very, VERY long time, I saw the reflection of my body and thought it was just beautiful. I loved the curves, I loved the form, I loved its size and I loved its softness. Nothing was firm, or tight, or toned.
My stomach looked kind of full, round even and fluffy, but it bore a child safely and secure for 39 weeks, enduring each strong kick, each swift movement, almost four years ago; a beautiful healthy, happy boy.
My legs and thighs are bigger, rounder and flaccid with the ever presence of some cellulite and a few stretch marks, but they run after a child and with a child every day, whenever he wants to play, and they are the perfect size for when my son hugs them when he's scared. There, he feels secure.
My arms look and feel soft, with no perceivable muscle tone or structure; not at all sculptural. But they hold a child every day. They hug him tight never wanting to let go. They pick him up, they carry him and he trusts they will not let him fall down.
And it's all beautiful. It's all soft, round, fluffy and flaccid, but firm and strong enough to bear a boy, to run after and with a boy, to hold a boy, to play with a boy, to kiss his pain away, to take his hand and make him feel secure, to lift him up and help him reach new and wonderful heights, to tell him each day how much I love him... Most of all, my heart is strong enough to hear him say he loves me back.