I find it sad that so many women refuse their bodies the honor that they deserve. Even women that you think would know better, women that gave great respect to their pregnant bodies and to the process of pregnancy and childbirth itself, later look at those same stomachs they so lovingly caressed with only thoughts of disgust.
I am sometimes guilty of the same.
But when I am my best self I look at my stomach with more love. I run my hands over the new texture of that skin and remember that I was given blessings so great that my body could not contain them. I see the few shiny white lines that are my remembrance of Ezekiel's time within me, and the surrounding (much more plentiful) angry red ones that are my skin's ode to Malachi, and I know that my body will never be the same as it once was. But then again neither will I. I don't WANT to be. And when I honestly think about it, I don't think I would want my body to be the same either.
I was part of something miraculous. I don't want the physical signs of it to be magically (or medically) erased as if it were something shameful. Definitely not in pursuit of some ridiculous ideal of American perfection, because let's face it, I'm not going to achieve that either way. Very very few of us ever will.
My body has served me well. It is strong and it is able and it is healthy and yes, it is beautiful.