Battle Scars

My husband was happy when he came home, sometime after 9 p.m. on this quiet Wednesday evening.

 

It made me happy.

 

Our daughter was asleep, far earlier than the norm and so, for a few moments, I was able to feel his contentment radiate without sharing his glow with anyone else.   Though his team had lost their evening soccer game, he was content.

 

Those brief moments before he went to bed calmed me.

 

She was happy and resting, he was happy and at ease. 

 

I was ready to welcome a long June evening similarly.

 

As I lie in the dark, beckoning sleepiness to overcome me, my fingertips lightly grazed my lower abdomen the way they do when I am relaxing, lost in deep thought or otherwise self-soothing from a busy day.

 

I could feel the faint hollows under the delicate zig-zag of fingertips at the surface of skin left scarred and otherwise etched with an insignia that reads as "Sayler was here".

 

There was serenity within the delicate details of each furrow, created from skin that was stretched beyond limits, a peaceful gratification thinking about this usually-hidden area of body that has become my favorite.

 

As I settled into a bikini over the weekend, I scorned the street tacos and bean burritos that have been a regular on the lunch roster of late.  The corn and flour tortilla-filled delights hung to my hips obnoxiously, reminding me that adding more cilantro and onion doesn't somehow make them a lighter food choice...

 

Staring in the mirror, my pale mid-section reflected the stretch marks engraved after 9 months of battle. 

 

I have a moment, each time I catch sight of them, when I remember the disappointment of seeing them develop in my last month of pregnancy.  The pink striations emblazoned across the front, like a sign of advice to consider moving to a burka-friendly environment post-partum.

 

But these days,

 

I appreciate them.

 

I wouldn't disagree with moms who say they got lucky by not getting stretch marks from pregnancy, though I wouldn't envy them, either.

 

And though my thighs sadly show a strong appreciation for amazing Mexican food, I have an equally strong, and fond, appreciation for the hollows of skin I carefully examine with each tactile pass that gives me great comfort.

 

These scars might continue to fade, but they will always be with me. Like faint memories of something wonderful, amazing and life-altering.

 

They will always be with me.