I’ve never really had self esteem issues (this became evident when I unabashedly rocked some hideous hairstyles, including a terrible perm, an awkward shag, and one ‘do that my friends referred to as “the horn of evil”). I credit my mother for much of this – she always told me I was beautiful (parenting goggles are apparently much like beer goggles), and I believed her.
Fast forward to this time last year when I found out I was pregnant with our wee Mr. Jackson. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about my babyfied body, especially after I had him. I mean, all that skin has to go somewhere, right? I was secretly afraid that I would end up with leftovers that I could use to wrap around myself on cold nights.
The rounder I got during pregnancy, the more beautiful I felt. After I had him, I was too exhausted to care what I looked like. And now, three months later, I don’t look exactly like I did last July. I’ve got a little extra cushion here and there, some souvenir marks as a reminder of Jackson’s stay, and several pairs of pants that I’ll be farewelling forever. But I’m pleasantly surprised to find that it doesn’t bother me at all. I am still amazed at what my body accomplished, and for that, I’m more comfortable with it than ever before.
