I love your breasts, Mommy.

A2 stands proudly when these words come out of her mouth with clarity. She has a lisp and gets irate when she has to repeat her words. Luckily for me I understood her the first go round. Typically though, she's a loving child who lives to give compliments. And generally speaking, I love to receive them..

Here's the "but"....

When my darling, ever caring, wonderfully thoughtful daughter presents me with her gracious appreciation...she is no where near my breasts. In fact, I am standing up and she is standing in front of me (barely 36 inches tall) with her tiny little hands jiggling my....stomach.

Ugh.

The c-section pouch, the couch. I could rent this space to two or three NICU preemies should they ever run out of isolettes at Huntsville Hospital. Maybe I should patent that idea. I'll brainstorm on that later.

Back to me, the couch and A2.

For a moment, I'm stunned. Hurt actually. I've been working out four days a week. I've been "thinking thin", counting calories and even making plea bargains with the universe (ala "The Secret"). I've lost weight damn it, that's what I kept thinking while looking down at her grinning face. She's waiting for me to respond. I want to scream something foul in the kitchen. Curse out the cookies, fist fight the java chip ice cream cartons, talk shit about the chicken nuggets mother and had a girlscout been close I might have snatched off her badges in this fit of rage. But there was just me & A2. And, she's not a girlscout yet.

I take a moment.

I'm raising daughters. I have to remind myself of that fact when I look in the mirror in the morning sans shirt (and bra) or when I step on the scale and feel overwhelmed by motherhood. I can not go racing through the house wailing "Oh My God, I'm FAT!" ...though I imagine there's some sort of therapy in that notion. I can't cry or cringe at the sight of my reflection. The zig zag pattern of stretch marks, the love/hate handles, the after effect of breast feeding, the "couch". These are not scars from a war, but the accolades from birthing the scientist who cures cancer or the future ambassador who unifies the world. This "couch" is the pillow A1-A3 lay upon when they are sick. These love/hate handles are the cushion for little heads to lean against for a sense of security. These now sagging breasts are evidence that I am a real life super hero. And these stretch marks..well those are a post-it notes from beyond telling me that a mother of 3 should not be wearing belly shirts out in public.

Sometimes, you've gotta check yourself.

How will I be able to teach the A's to love themselves entirely, slight flaws and all, if I'm brushing my teeth in the dark to avoid the mirror. Which, I've tried before and ended up with a mouthful of prescription diaper rash cream.

There's always that moment...the second you have before responding. The space in time where you decide to either freak the hell out or ride the wave. And, since I've always thought it would be cool to learn to surf I simply responding by saying:

"That's Mommy's belly, silly"

And again, with all the clarity in the world, she turns to me and says..

"I love your belly too, Mommy"


I can only hope she grows to love her own as well.