I was thinking earlier today of what a joy it was to be parenting my eleven month year old baby girl. And I looked down to my tummy where she used to be sheltered before she was born. But before she was welcomed into the world by loved ones, she left me a gift, stretch marks. Even though she was my first child, she gave me many marks.
Before I ever was pregnant, I had heard many women lament over the fact that they were burdened with the look of their stretch marks, how they had ruined their skin, made it ugly. Women say being pregnant is for the most part a good thing, except for the stretch marks. Today we are bombarded with the myth that women are only beautiful if they have the perfect skin, the perfect hair. But let me ask, what is perfect? For a mother, perfection is having a tummy riddled with stretch marks. It is a map of the path that we have taken on our journey through pregnancy. It is a souvenir that will never fade.
When you look back and try to remember what it was like holding such precious cargo, you don’t have to look far down to catch a glimpse into the past of motherhood.