My body made a baby, two actually. I still marvel at that. Considering that I cannot assemble a piece of IKEA furniture without assistance, I can’t quite figure out how I did it. My body just knew. It knew how to differentiate a brain cell from a bone cell. It knew when it was time to make a liver and that there were supposed to be two lungs. It made eyes see and a heart beat. It made boy parts once and girl parts once. It put toes on feet and fingers on hands. It created life.
And now, my body is different. I’m much lumpier than I ever was. I have stretch marks, cellulite, flab, and two large scars. My hair is shedding like crazy. I sweat profusely in places I didn’t know could sweat. I don’t get to shower that often, so I often smell like breast milk and baby spit up. My boobs are enormous (more so than usual). I don’t often wear makeup anymore and black circles are permanently under my eyes. My skin is dry and I am often dehydrated. My clothes don’t fit right – I can’t fit into my pre-baby clothes, and my maternity clothes are too big. I may never fit into my skinny jeans again.
My body may be different, but my husband still thinks I’m pretty. He watched my figure change day by day when I was carrying his children. He knows what my body is capable of, and despite the changes (or perhaps because of them), he still wants to be near me.
My body may be different, but my children still snuggle up as close to me as possible. They don’t mind the stink. They were safe, secure, and loved inside my belly. Now, they are safe, secure, and loved in my arms.
My body made a baby, two actually. I still marvel at that.
“Do you want to be a pilot some day?” asked the delivery guy, thinking he had asked the appropriate question given what he was observing.