My Auntie Moment

This is me in 2005:

This is me about two weeks ago:

 

(You must ignore my face here. This was at the height of no-power-for-days-Hurricane-Irene and I thought it would be funny to compare myself to those Dorthea Lange Depression Era photos. After all, a few days without TMZ is exactly like the Dust Bowl.)

Uncanny, yes? 

I post these two pictures because when I look at the top shot, I'm reminded of one simple fact: I felt fat and ugly that day. My arms were too big, my face too round, and my eyes too squinty. As my husband and I toured the Cherry Blossoms on a stunning spring day, I crossed my arms and scowled, trying to hold in the sagging and bubbling, that toxic flesh spilling from my clothes.

I was so stupid. I mean, just look at that rack. My boobs didn't know what (or, more specifically, who) was going to use 'em and abuse 'em. My belly didn't know it would be stretched until it was as taut as a timpani, and just as ponderous. Twice.

Anne Lamott talks about loving her body. She calls her saggy upper thighs "The Aunties," and speaks of how she treats these funny body parts as one would treat a revered, beloved aunt. You, know, the silly one that wears straw hats and orders Gin Fizzes? She rubs delicious lotion on her Aunties, and let the sun rest on them whenever she can. 

I love that. And I had an Auntie moment of my own right after my oldest was born. It was my first postpartum shower. My stomach sagged, my feet were like two balloons, and I was so weak I needed to grip the shower bar. 

And yet, when I bent over to shave my legs, I could do it. For the first time in forty weeks, I could touch my toes without hitting that block of baby. I could move, unencumbered and so very light.

My body was mine again. And it was more than enough. It was beautiful because I had it back, and finally realized what I had lost. 

And when I looked at my son, I was awed at what it could do.

I can't say that every day is perfect. But I am confident enough now that I can post a frowning, less-than-perfect photo online. A photo of days without hot water or flat irons. A photo of a middle-aged dame who will never again be as young and foolish as that miserable woman in the first shot. 

And thank God for that. 

This post is linked up with Just Be Enough. For every 20 linked up posts, Bellflower Books will provide a memory book to a woman fighting breast cancer through Crickett’s Answer for Cancer, and help bring a smile to courageous women giving it their all, every single day.