Scars

I have stretch marks. Lots. And lots. And then some more. I didn't have too many with my first baby until the last three weeks and then the red tendrils raced up my belly like the roots of a vine that I pulled up through the ground, snaking and arching across my thighs and stomach like poison. With my second baby, two years later, most of my scars had faded to pink lines and I hoped they would just flare back up again and not create new ones. But the red lines crept over the crest of my pregnant stomach even earlier with GG2 and I would look down to see crimson fingerlings, the ends creeping steadily upward to claim my skin. With MOS, Mother's Only Son, I carried my pregnancy weight differently and so developed interesting stretch marks in places I was not aware could get stretched. The backs of my arms. My back. Nothing was safe. I got pregnant with Tiny when MOS was a little over a year old, so not only had I not lost all my pregnancy weight, but my scars hadn't had time to fade very much. With Tiny, who was my smallest baby, my skin stretched and reddened to the point that my belly button had stretch marks. I didn't know that stretch marks themselves could get stretch marks. But they can. I hurt a lot when I was pregnant with her, and no amount of creams, potions, or oils eased the soreness of my skin traversing the vast bulk of my uterus.

So here I am now, three years after Tiny was born, and I have lost almost all my 200 pounds of weight that I gained with four babies, cumulatively, of course. But the scars, oh, the scars! Thick, silvery grooves that course up and down my torso and upper legs. My stretch marks are heavy on my skin, weighing it down in places, a very real reminder of what I have been through to bring my four children into this world. But I hate my scars, I hate my stretch marks. I know I should love them, embrace them, be grateful that I have them because it means that I bore four babies, but I don't. I rarely look at myself in a mirror; some days I don't even know what I look like at all. My face is scarred, too, from teenage acne and angst, but as I've gotten older those scars have faded with the wrinkles that I'm developing, so I don't hate my face the way I used to. But my body, that I hate. I don't love the way my skin looks. I don't like the way it feels, the way it is slack where it should be firm. Never mind the muscles lying underneath it; my skin refuses to conform to my frame anymore. I am strong, probably stronger now than I've ever been in my life. But the curse of genetics has me in its grasp, and my once smooth skin is forever altered, forever changed, and forever lost.

I know that it is inevitable that I age, I have seen it in my parents, my grandparents, my great aunts and great uncles; I suppose I just thought that I would look younger for longer than I have. But these four babies, these four children, have wrought some serious havoc on me. I suffer with aches and pains that I know I shouldn't have at the age of 35; I suppose that's what happens when you have four babies in six years. Vanity of vanities, all life is vanity! But for someone like me, who has felt unattractive for most of my life, the reality of being 35 and never achieving a luminous beauty is haunting. Perhaps I am shallow and the only thing deep about me is my scars, but I honestly thought that I would heal from being pregnant for 36 total months. But I haven't nor will I. These stretch marks are here to stay. I don't want to look like this. I want my children, of course I want my children, but I want to be beautiful, too. And I'm not, but perhaps someday I will think that I am. Maybe when I'm older and the wisps of time have begun creeping gently through my brain, I will forget that I looked like this at 35, and if I see a picture of myself I will simply think, "How beautiful I was then. How beautiful."

I don't ever tell a young mom to be, pregnant for the first time, that her stretch marks will go away. I simply shrug and say, "Yep. I've got 'em too. Mine are awful. They've never gotten better, just faded a bit." If it's a mom I know and think that she won't run screaming from me, I pull up my shirt a bit and show her my belly. The mom always says, "Oh, that's not so bad." Which is what she is supposed to say. But I know what I look like and I know that it is bad. Sometimes I feel like a failure, that I can't even manage my own skin. Or that I should be kicking my heels up with glee because I have a destroyed body, but four children to show for it. The reality is, though, that I hate my scars and I wish desperately that I didn't have them. I want to be a beautiful woman, not a mother who clearly gained too much weight with each baby and whose skin rebelled against her. But I also want to eventually be okay with my scars, okay with the way I look. I don't know if that will ever happen, or if I will avoid mirrors forever. I know I'm not Quasimodo or Medusa, I know that my friends and family think I'm lovely, but I want to think that I am beautiful. I want to be able to honestly look at myself and see God's perfect work in my life, not the ravages of sin on my body. Because that's what stretch marks have to be: the signs of a fallen world upon the skin of a woman doing what she desperately wants to do. I wanted my babies desperately; I am honestly content with my place in life now, as their mother. But oh how I wish that my body had not suffered so much in the doing.

I had GG1 take some pictures of me, so stop scrolling down if you don't want to look at scars. They are not offensive pictures in terms of nudity, but they bother me all the same. My scars might bother you, too. Or maybe they will encourage you, that yours aren't as bad as mine, or maybe my scars will make you feel like you're not alone with your own scars. Here are the pictures; you have been warned. GG1 did take some lovely shots and I am impressed with her little ten year old self taking pictures.

I might keep this picture for when I'm old and my eyesight is failing. I'll probably like how I look then.

My hip, crisscrossed so many times it looks like a map of a river delta.

My belly button, complete with stretch marks. Who knew that was possible? 

The back of my arm. Another thing I had no idea could be so affected by pregnancy.

I've read books about loving who I am, recognizing God's grace and mercy in my life and striving for contentment. I've wrestled with ugly thoughts about myself, wanted so many times to just strip off my skin for a new one. But perhaps this is abiding for me; to simply be who I am, share some of my icky thoughts and pictures of my scarred skin with others, and just keep living. Maybe that is why I have scars: so that I will never forget what I have done, who I am, and what I need to be doing.