Anonymously I see you!

I see you…

You grab at your stomach, the way I dream of cradling my unborn baby in my arms. The difference being you grab in shame and I grab in hope.

The disconnect is real and I cannot judge you for being “woman” and feeling societal pressures on your post baby body size, all I can tell you is from my perspective I see “Mother.” “Mother” the word, the idea I long to be. I can tell you to accept yourself, to feel immense gratitude for the place you are in…but I fear body shaming in our society has become so powerful – that it now trumps the original manifestation of woman. That woman is obsolete without her perfect, manicured, barre method ass and thighs. And now you and I stand opposite a mirror – the instructor calls for us to “get down lower, chin up and tuck.” I look at you to avoid making eye contact with myself at my reflection – “I am here today, as I have no where else to be, no children to pick up, no babysitter to rush back to…no job (I quit mine after my second miscarriage for fear that stress was wearing on my body), I’m here today, but wish I could really be somewhere else – where I’m needed!”

You catch me staring at you, so sink a little lower in your tuck for fear I am judging your ability to workout. You are riddled with guilt and shame, your shirt rises a little and I see the marks your baby has left on your beautiful wrinkled tummy and I dream of tracing my fingers a long those marks as no doubt they lead to your heart. Your stomach is a beautiful hue of fleshy purple, blue and silver streaks – an artistic masterpiece, a real labor of love and I wish you could enjoy its beauty as much as I do. I dream of my belly rounding and stretching – my hips widening as “Mother Nature” intends – taking her lead and knowing instinctively how my body must move and grow to house the one real wonder of the world “BIRTH.” Why deny yourself the memory of your journey – your body now wants to permanently tattoo its spiritually courageous map, deep like the blue pulsating veins that now run life lines to your breasts. Yes, I hear you exclaim to your girlfriend on the next mat over how you now feel “top heavy” and “sports bra’s cramp your style.” Your girlfriend giggles and willingly agrees, she doesn’t placate you and tell you you are beautiful, instead her own insecurities of birthing three beautiful boys – takes president as she says “I know right, I always wanted boobs – but when my milk came in…I was like wooo what the…just another place to feel more big.” My dream of a baby suckling at my bosom does not help you feel proud and strong, the way it should. Instead you feel awkward and uncomfortable – as you switch out your small shirts in your closet to a medium as if hiding behind a larger size gives you peace – the same peace as smearing stretch-mark cream across your belly hoping in the morning it will all be a shade lighter.

Now that class is over…I see you glance down and in the mirror to see if your Lululemons are now being more forgiving at your waist. But 45 minutes of workout cannot hide 9 months of growth…you know better…but I see you grab, (for lack of a better description) your muffin top in disgust – I envision your toddler perching on your hip and needing that extra pillow for his comfort – when he has fallen down and bumped his knee.  I wonder if he looks at his mommy ever in disgust? You silly woman, all your toddler see’s is beauty, oh and a mummy that doesn’t sit down at the table for meal with him – but yet busy’s herself in the kitchen authoritatively giving orders “to eat up, you must eat to be healthy and happy.” And then when he hops down to play, he watches mommy cram his leftovers in her mouth as if she were a squirrel scavenging for winter.

I want so badly to be “Mother” I want my body to swell with pride. To stretch and transform and propel me into a new level of wholeness, a new level of insight that I envision only “Mother” really ever can understand. But yet I do not understand with that insight and depth how you forget your inner core you spent 9 long months discovering …you lay awake at night aligning your heart beat with your unborn baby’s, marking each kick, and hiccup as the hours tick by. It is a silent meditation that prepares us for motherhood, the lack of sleep in the third trimester has been said to prepare us for the “no” sleep in the fourth trimester – everything has been crafted perfectly. And yet the second that baby is born – woman is to ignore everything she has taught herself in those months and hours and get her ass to the gym.

It is no joke that when you post your wonderful birth announcement on social media. you are then hounded with “Loose weight fast fads and stretch mark informercials” – in the same token when someone sends their condolences to you privately for your miscarriage your google searches suggest infertility clinics or adoption agencies to contact. And although this blog is no slight on social media – we have created this world of immediacy…there is no time left for us to heal or for us to truly navigate our own understanding of the world and our bodies.

I see you reach for your water and I nervously hang by the door to catch you on your way out – to acknowledge you. To tell you your scars are not battle wounds you will try hopelessly to forgot and then come to the realization that they have in fact made you who you are…no those scars as something far rarer, far more beautiful, and deeply desired by a lot of sad and lonely women…those are the scars of “Motherhood” no one can deny you those. No weight loss fad, or stretch mark cream, no young 20 something your husband admires by the pool…those marks, like your wrinkly belly will age with your children…And when they are grown and left your home…those scars, that “extra” padded hip, will be all you have left to remind you how lucky and blessed you were!

I see you…I hope you see me and understand my desire to be you scarred and all….