Dear Post-Partum Body,

I am so amazed and in awe of you.  I sometimes cannot fathom that you were able to carry the Baby Dudes for 36 weeks.  You carried over 10 pounds of babies, plus a placenta, two amniotic sacs, and a lot of extra weight in retained fluid, increased blood supply, and additional pounds in the chest region.  You strained at times to keep up, but you did it.  The babies grew bigger and stronger with each week in the perfect little oven that you made to keep them safe and sound.

Before getting pregnant, you and I had our fair share of disputes.  I longed for you to be a little thinner, a little tighter, to look a little better in a bathing suit.  Despite our ups and downs, you accomplished many impressive feats like running a half marathon and surviving the stress and sleepless days of law school and the Bar Exam.  Over all, I didn’t think much about your daily duties or of your capabilities, only that I wanted you to be better, to be stronger, to look more like what I saw on those fitness pictures on Pinterest.

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When I got pregnant, I watched you slowly change.  My tummy began to expand with the growing weight of two little boys.  My skin got tighter.  My ribs ached so badly every day.  My feet swelled.  Heck, everything swelled.  By the third trimester, I often drove home from work crying because you’d been in pain all day long, and I could finally let down my guard and acknowledge how much physical pain I was in throughout the day.  But, for the first time in my life, I radiated with pride in you.  Maybe my hips had always been a little wide.  Maybe my tummy had been a little poochy.  Maybe I didn’t have the inner thigh clearance I would have liked.  But now I saw you were magnificent in your ability to create and grow life.  I was proud to waddle walk around in you.

At the end of my second trimester, I looked at the bottom of my stomach (quite a feat by that time), and for the first time, I noticed some little red marks: twin skin was making its debut with the first wave of stretch marks.  I still had weeks to go.  Your skin was just too tight, stretched too quickly, and you were showing the toll this monumental task was putting on you.  With each passing week, more red marks appeared, and they looked increasingly angry.

You continued working tirelessly right up until the doctors determined the babies needed to come out for their own safety at 36 weeks.  I sometimes called you Alcatraz because you showed no signs of considering letting those babies escape anytime soon.  Even then, you knew in some primordial biological way that those babies were supposed to keep cooking, and you hung on tight.  NO medicine was going to make you fail on your job to grow the Baby Dudes.  Little did you know that they had to come out one way or the other, so the doctors and I made the decision to proceed with surgery.

Before we knew it, you were numbed up and with the quick, skilled slice of a scalpel, you were cut open from one side of the lower abdomen to the other.  Elliot and Finn emerged, and you were carefully repaired.  When the boys were taken to the NICU, you didn’t let a surgery slow you down.  You helped me be able to see my boys, even when you were still broken and hurting.  You bared down and pushed through for the sake of something other than yourself.  The NICU nurses finally made me slow down because they could visibly see the stress and hardship I was putting you through as you tried to heal from surgery and recover from 36 weeks of carrying me plus 2 more little lives around.  I was thankful that you were strong enough to keep going; otherwise, I would have missed the first days of my boys’ lives.  Once again, I viewed you as magnificent in your ability to prevail through trials and tribulations.

After coming home and settling in to life with twins, I started noticing you in a different way.  Ugly, purpley-red marks marred my now flabby tummy.  An angry, red scar seared across you and the flab just hung lifelessly over that scar like a dead fish.  My maternity clothes didn’t fit you right.  My real clothes didn’t fit you at all.  I started to hate you.  I didn’t want to see you in the mirror.  I didn’t want to try to find clothes that would (a) fit and (b) camouflage all your hideous flaws; it was just too difficult of a task to face day after day.  I stayed out of pictures as much as I could because the harsh reality of what you looked like was just too much for me to deal with.  You were terrible, marred, and something of which to be ashamed.

Then one day, I looked at my sons.  They are strong and healthy and beautiful.  They are growing like weeds.  They came home after just 8 short days because you kept them in for so long.  In a perfectly God-designed way, you grew my boys, giving them the nutrients and environment they needed exactly at the time they needed.  You gave me the greatest gift I have ever received.  I recently read an article about how as mothers we have to be careful how we talk about our bodies because we teach our children how to view us and how to view themselves.  After weeks of calling you fat, ugly, and flawed, I was chagrined and horrified to realize I was teaching my sons that not only was their mom was not beautiful, but that someday when their own wives carry sweet little babies in their bodies, that they too will be fat, ugly, and flawed, thereafter.

When you walk in a room, my boys instantly smile.  They see your beauty.  They see joy radiating from every pore when you look at them.  They see and smell the familiar place they called home for so many months.  They see the body that gave them life. They look at you, and they see love.

So, dear Body, I want to say I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for forgetting that your magnificence has nothing to do with your shape, what size clothes fit you, or whether you have purple lines criss-crossing your tummy.  I’m sorry for losing the awe at what you accomplished.  I’m sorry for belittling you in front of those who love you and me.  I’ll need reminders, but I promise to try to hold you in esteem, knowing you are capable of unimaginable tasks and that your worth and beauty come from love and joy, not outward perfection.  Last, but most importantly, I promise to always be thankful to you for the gift of my sons.

Love,

Me

Did you struggle with accepting your post-partum body?