I have never washed my body with such tenderloving care as I did the day after my son was taken out of it.
This body- that so innocently received my husband.
This body- that grew my child for 40 weeks.
This body- still swollen with the proof of my motherhood.
This body- that has carried me 41 years over mountains, through marathons, in oceans, and down many city streets.
How could I despise this body?
How could I deny the strength of this body?
That even now oozes colostrum, drips blood, knits flesh with stitches and grit.
I stood alone in a warm shower tenderly peeling away bandages from where my son had been pulled out of me screeching and peeing as he entered the world. I scrubbed firmly, yet respectfully, the skin bearing the marks of birth: catheters, IVs, and a love deeper than the pain of arrival.
How did I ever hate this body?
Full and round.
Glorious and strong.
Tender and good.