I love pregnancy, and I love my pregnant belly, but you know what I hate? I hate stretchmarks. Unfortunately, I am covered in them. Although I gained the recommended amount of weight with Luke and used all the creams, I discovered that my skin does not stretch well. At 16 weeks, I'd only lost weight, yet I already had some nasty stretchmarks. By the time I was in labor, my midwife and doula both exclaimed that they'd never seen such bad stretchmarks (they go from my breasts to my calves--fun, right?). And, you know, no one sees naked pregnant ladies more than the two of them, I'm sure.
But the truth is, on some level, I have to love these stretchmarks. They're here because my skin stretched to carry a 9 pound baby. They're here so that this little guy, with the softest baby skin EVER, can be here, too.
The other day, Luke rubbed his hands over my bare stomach and said, "Bumpy, mama." It is. It's bumpy and, really, anything but smooth, especially compared to his soft hands. This is the best and the hardest shot I could come up with for texture, simply because throwing a part of me out there that I don't like is hard--even though I blurred and soft focused and did everything I could to take the attention away from them, but they're still there. Mostly, I'm okay with that because I love his face and his little hand reaching up to take it all in, no matter how bumpy it may be. Love.
Now someone lie to me and tell me I won't get more the second time around.