I had contractions for the first few days. I bled for seven LONG weeks. I was sore to the point that I literally felt as if someone had actually ran my body over with a semi-truck. My milk came in and for two months I leaked non-stop. And, as my body slowly returned to it's pre-pregnancy size, I realized I had stretch marks. Tons of them!
Though three months following Peyton's delivery I weighed 10lbs less than my original pre-pregnancy weight, I found myself suffering from extreme body image issues. I felt as if I had no reason to look as if I had just given birth, if my arms were so empty.
Not only were my arms empty, but my body was empty. My skin resembled a deflated pool float that was accidentally left on the pool deck during a summer lightening storm.
I felt cold and hollow... I was cold and hollow.
I needed something, anything, to prove to me that my pregnancy with Peyton was real, and that though my arms and body were empty, my life was not.
It was then that I decided to accept my stretch marks, and my hatred towards my stretch marks became my favorite love story.
My stretch marks were once red, like fire. They have since began to fade. Now, they are white, and in certain lighting they even shine. They are my constant reminder of Peyton's life. Each mark represents the thirty-nine weeks I carried her, her chubby cheeks, each finger and each toe. They remind me of her tiny hands, her button nose, and her ruby red lips. They are my stripes, my stretch marks, my battle scars. I EARNED them. I am PROUD of them. They mean that Peyton was once here. They connect me to her.
And though I may not look sixteen in my teeny polka dot bikini, I will rock my stretch marks for everyone to see because my arms, body, and life are full of beauty.
