Beauty marks

"As a woman in this society, whether you give birth or not, body struggles will always be there in one form or another; they just take different shapes." 

by Angela M. 

As I type this, my youngest child, Keya, is partaking in one of her favorite meals beside me. It is a bowl of cereal. Reese’s puffs, to be exact. With extra milk. She is 10 and a daydreamer, emotional and passionate, like me. She wants to be a dog groomer when she grows up. My oldest child, Amara, is 13 and grounded. She has a fantastic imagination and big plans for her future—she wants to work with horses after she graduates from college. She keeps me grounded. Both girls say they want to get married and have babies someday.

This brings me to my journey toward becoming their mom.

I always knew I wanted to be a mother. I was three when I received my first baby doll, and the dream of someday holding my own flesh and blood took shape. I never dreamed of a career. I don’t think it’s because I’m not motivated or mentally stuck in the 1950s. This is the way God created me. I saw my own mother love being a mother, and I admire her so much. I just couldn’t think of any job that could be as fulfilling to me or that I would be as passionate about.

I planned to marry young, have four babies, and be a stay-at-home mother. Instead, I watched my brother and his wife and my sister and her husband all produce families at very young ages. Which, in hindsight, actually helped me in motherhood. I hung out often with my amazing nieces and nephew and learned a great deal.

Throughout my 20s, I dated. A lot. Not that I was loose or anything. I actually had quite a few serious relationships that I thought would turn into wedded bliss and start me off on the road to motherhood. Nope. Let’s just say I dated a lot of Mr. Not-Even-Close-To-Mr. Rights: a narcissist, a rugged builder more in love with his dog than me, and a mama’s boy who could not make a decision on his own, to name a few. I had my heart broken again and again. And, not to brag, but I also broke a heart or two. Always looking for my Mr. Right and slowly losing sight of my dream of being a wife and mother.

​The problem was that I compared myself to my siblings and their ages entering parenthood. I listened to all the “great advice” that, at 27, I was already an old maid. People would look at me with all the pity they could muster and ask, “When are you getting married?” They kept trying to set me up. I felt like I should wear a sign on my shirt that read, “I am single and happy, so quit asking me when I’m getting married, and, no, I don’t need you to set me up with your uncle’s nephew’s barber.”

Because I was happy as a single woman. I could fly by the seat of my pants. I spent quality time with my parents, my family, my friends. I lived by myself and then with a roommate. I traveled and had some amazing life experiences. I learned who I was, who I wasn’t, what I liked, and what I didn’t like. I realized what I wanted, and didn’t want, in a relationship.

Finally, I met Mr. Right, my soulmate. I wasn’t an old maid; I was 27. We met on MySpace, which is like Facebook but way cooler because you could design your front page and upload a theme song. Of course, mine was something by Frank Sinatra. We both knew we wanted to start a family right away. In trying to get pregnant, it actually happened the second month. We were ecstatic.

Pregnancy. No one ever tells you how hard it’s going to be. Because I don’t think “they” want to scare you and leave the world without more offspring. Let me tell you: my body was not meant for a glamorous pregnancy. No glow here. No ideal 15-pound weight gain or easy labor. I got sicker than a dog right off the bat. I threw up so much that I’m surprised my intestines did not come out. Toward the end of my pregnancy, my husband sweetly said, “Baby, you have cankles.” He wasn’t lying. I was huge, bloated, and so bloody uncomfortable.

Despite all the vomiting, I still tacked on an extra 50 pounds. I was overweight, to begin with. Yikes. Weighing in at the doctor’s office, especially at the end, made any self-respect I had fly right out the hospital window—especially when the nurse yelled out my weight for everyone within half a mile to hear. I had people I worked with, people at the grocery store, and people on the street telling me how big I was and how I must have twins in my belly. Again, let’s be done with the stupid comments.

Then there was labor. Enough said; it’s in the word.

Next up, nursing. Why do people say nursing is so glorious? I was bound and determined to nurse through at least the first year with both daughters. But they had gum problems and could not get a good latch. I pushed through months of pain, nipple shields, and multiple cases of mastitis. I remember nursing on cement floors in public bathrooms. Nursing in my car. Nursing and worrying about the blanket falling down and being exposed. Nursing and not losing weight.

Everyone said, “Oh, just nurse and the weight will melt right off!” Liars! I was STILL wearing my maternity jeans a year after giving birth. My body housed two amazing, healthy girls, but it didn’t do it without putting up a massive fight. For me, the fight was over. No four children; two was enough. I felt fulfilled. I was done with pregnancies, done with nursing, and done with the body struggles.

Or was I?

As a woman in this society, whether you give birth or not, body struggles will always be there in one form or another; they just take different shapes. I have other body struggles now after giving birth. I have stretch marks across my stomach. I lost my breasts entirely from nursing and got implants to feel somewhat like myself again. They say it is so selfless carrying babies in your body, that you give up pieces of yourself that you’ll never get back. Some of this is true. But not completely. I wanted to have babies, so it wasn’t entirely a selfless act. I gained so much more of myself by having my daughters. They add depth to my life, and that is a beautiful thing.