A Mother’s Story
A couple weeks ago, I went to my favorite used clothing store hoping to find a tunic-lengthed shirt to go with a skirt I have. I found a simple black, scoop-necked, empire-waisted number and loved how it fit. It wasn’t until I got it home that I looked at the tag and saw if was the brand called Motherhood.
In other words, the shirt that fit my specifications was made for pregnant women.
Did this make me cry? Au contraire! It opened doors, because now I had a heretofore unrealized resource for comfortable clothing that fits my body. Praise be.
This, then, is my Mother’s Day offering. Making babies changes our bodies in a way that keeps on giving. And how could it be otherwise? Portland dads often mark the transition to fatherhood with tattoos of their kids’ names and birth dates. Mothers are marked already.
When I bend to touch my toes, and then tuck in my chin and look back up at my belly button, the folds and puckering of my skin can look almost like a thick-skinned tropical flower, my belly button the center, my thick, stretched belly skin fanning out like petals.
The illusion works better if I squint, but I like thinking of my round, sagging belly as a flower my children left behind to remind me they were there. As if I could ever forget!
What a good way to look at your giving body.
This is great! I’m smiling broadly.
Sometimes looking at women’s bodies I know
to be mothers and then looking at my body I
think I did not have that incomparable initiation,
and I all of a sudden I feel the missing of those
marks in not just my unstretched tummy but in
all other realms as well.
Go Mothers! The nourishment you bring to this world
keeps it going.
Happy Mother’s Day, Katrina! Lets celebrate our bellies!
Katrina, this is beautiful. As are you. Happy Mothers Day!
I love this! I told someone recently that I’ll never feel fat again after having been pregnant and watching my body change permanently: grow and diminish, although not to where it was before — why should it? My “Mirabelly” is my proud reminder of what I grew inside of me. I hate the media’s emphasis on “getting your body back.” Back to what: empty?