The Saddest Day in a Mother's Life...
There are many heart-wrenching moments in our motherly journeys. Some bittersweet, the first day of school, for instance. Those times when we realize our babies are growing up, and that's good, but we feel a twinge of sadness that they no longer need us quite as much.
There are the fearful moments, when our children are hurt - either emotionally or physically. There's the hurt that you feel as a parent when your child is hurting and you can't fix it. When you want only to make it all better and can't, when you know they are looking to you and it's not within your grasp to make the hurt go away.
There are moments I'm sure that I haven't even experienced yet, more firsts... first day of high school, first relationship, first breakup. Moving away from home, college, and so on...
I'm sure there will be many who will disagree with me on this one, I really wish I could make a poll on this - but I think I have discovered the saddest day in my life as a mother.
I could handle all the first days, the injuries, the separations, all of it...
But when I discovered that there was not a single part of my body, save calves, feet, hands and head - untouched by stretch marks, ouch! I think back to my smugness during my first pregnancy, where I made it all the way to 36 weeks without visible stretch marks. I thought I'd made it, until they started. Low on my belly, they shot up with brutal speed. Just to spite me, I maintain to this day. Okay, I came to terms with that, so I wear long shirts now.
Until one day when my younger son was about 2, and I, wearing a tank top, reached for something on the dreaded top shelf. That's the one I strain to reach, because I'm vertically challenged. For some unfathomable reason (I suspect subconscious masochism), I looked over to see...stretch marks covering the underside of my upper arm, little spidery lines, taunting me.
I was grief stricken. I mourned my old body, I cursed my children, I complained incessantly. My husband, misguided as he was, cut off my rantings to tell me that maybe I should just exercise more. Poor fool. Next scene: he is sitting on the couch pie-eyed as I pace around the room, arms flailing, voice raising, imploring him to explain to me how exercise is going to smooth out my once-supple skin, to tell me exactly what he was thinking with that comment, and furthermore, that unless he's got something constructive to say, he should probably just not say anything. Poor fool. I think I might have been hormonal.
I think I mostly got past all of that. Okay, so my shirts are longer these days. So are my sleeves. It's alright if I look like a mom, I am a mom...
Getting out of the shower yesterday I saw them. Butt... stretch... marks. This is just crazy, I did not carry a baby in my ass! It brings me back to my naivety with my first pregnancy, wherein I, ignorantly, brought my pre-pregnancy jeans to the hospital to wear home after delivery. Oh, young foolish me. 2 days after my son was born, a woman in the hospital elevator asked me when I was due. I did not realize how much weight I put on in other places, and had to ask my husband to bring me a tarp to go home in. Okay, not quite - though it would have sufficed. I'm pretty sure I wore jogging pants home, if not maternity pants.
So the butt-marks should not surprise me, and yet they do. I am sad, very sad. And I can't even feel vengeful, since I only have boys and they will never go through this.
Not that I would BE vengeful like that. I love my children. Truly.
As mothers, we make a lot of sacrifices for our children. First and foremost, our bodies, which will never be quite the same again.
Maybe this is one of those bittersweet things after all. Two beautiful kids in exchange for one beautiful body, I couldn't pass that up.
There are the fearful moments, when our children are hurt - either emotionally or physically. There's the hurt that you feel as a parent when your child is hurting and you can't fix it. When you want only to make it all better and can't, when you know they are looking to you and it's not within your grasp to make the hurt go away.
There are moments I'm sure that I haven't even experienced yet, more firsts... first day of high school, first relationship, first breakup. Moving away from home, college, and so on...
I'm sure there will be many who will disagree with me on this one, I really wish I could make a poll on this - but I think I have discovered the saddest day in my life as a mother.
I could handle all the first days, the injuries, the separations, all of it...
But when I discovered that there was not a single part of my body, save calves, feet, hands and head - untouched by stretch marks, ouch! I think back to my smugness during my first pregnancy, where I made it all the way to 36 weeks without visible stretch marks. I thought I'd made it, until they started. Low on my belly, they shot up with brutal speed. Just to spite me, I maintain to this day. Okay, I came to terms with that, so I wear long shirts now.
Until one day when my younger son was about 2, and I, wearing a tank top, reached for something on the dreaded top shelf. That's the one I strain to reach, because I'm vertically challenged. For some unfathomable reason (I suspect subconscious masochism), I looked over to see...stretch marks covering the underside of my upper arm, little spidery lines, taunting me.
I was grief stricken. I mourned my old body, I cursed my children, I complained incessantly. My husband, misguided as he was, cut off my rantings to tell me that maybe I should just exercise more. Poor fool. Next scene: he is sitting on the couch pie-eyed as I pace around the room, arms flailing, voice raising, imploring him to explain to me how exercise is going to smooth out my once-supple skin, to tell me exactly what he was thinking with that comment, and furthermore, that unless he's got something constructive to say, he should probably just not say anything. Poor fool. I think I might have been hormonal.
I think I mostly got past all of that. Okay, so my shirts are longer these days. So are my sleeves. It's alright if I look like a mom, I am a mom...
Getting out of the shower yesterday I saw them. Butt... stretch... marks. This is just crazy, I did not carry a baby in my ass! It brings me back to my naivety with my first pregnancy, wherein I, ignorantly, brought my pre-pregnancy jeans to the hospital to wear home after delivery. Oh, young foolish me. 2 days after my son was born, a woman in the hospital elevator asked me when I was due. I did not realize how much weight I put on in other places, and had to ask my husband to bring me a tarp to go home in. Okay, not quite - though it would have sufficed. I'm pretty sure I wore jogging pants home, if not maternity pants.
So the butt-marks should not surprise me, and yet they do. I am sad, very sad. And I can't even feel vengeful, since I only have boys and they will never go through this.
Not that I would BE vengeful like that. I love my children. Truly.
As mothers, we make a lot of sacrifices for our children. First and foremost, our bodies, which will never be quite the same again.
Maybe this is one of those bittersweet things after all. Two beautiful kids in exchange for one beautiful body, I couldn't pass that up.
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