A Tragedy Begins

A wrong move today and I felt a quick burn. I went home and noticed raw little red verticle lines, tiny lines, on either side of my belly button, that were NOT there this morning. May 16, 2009, a day that will live in infamy. I lathered myself with oil and body butter, but I think this is the beginning of......

......STRETCH MARKS.

I thought I might escape unscathed again this time. I should know better. Mom had plenty of stretch marks from her three babies. I even have some very faint ones on the lower sides of my hips from adolescence, so it's in my jeans. I never got too big with Gillian, so I never got any with her (on breasts or belly), but all bets are off this time. I solemnly asked Sean if he could still love me with ugly stretch marks on my stomach (this was not part of our premarital agreement to love eachother even if: a) he went bald or b) I got fat), and he assured me that he figured it was a pretty real possibility with pregnancy, particularly multiple pregnancies. And (yes, we have had this conversation) he reminded me that we could always "take care of it after all the babies are finished being made" by which he means some skin treatments and a nice tummy tuck. Yeah, I'm not too proud to admit that I would definitely take care of any sag/extra skin business surgically. All that said, I could live with tiny stretch marks that fade to a shiny shade of my current skin tone, but not angry jagged red or purple ones.

I'd like to be able to tell you that I'd be honored post-baby to wear belly stretch marks like badges of honor from a well fought fight...some identification with womanhood, and being a mother, and giving up my body to the greater good. That's a fine, good thing if you really believe it... sharing my breasts to nourish my child for the better part of a year and a half was as much of that as I could comfortably do.

Ugh. Stretch marks.