Letter to my Stretch Marks

Dear Stretch Marks,

As I look in the mirror after my shower, I grab the Bio-Oil, the Palmer’s Stretch Mark lotion, all the stretch mark erasing creams. Anything to make you fade. I lather it on, hoping for the best, when I know that the previous months of use haven’t erased you yet. 

As I walk out, I feel guilt in the shallowness I feel about you. The guilt that I don’t love my body like all the influencers I see as I scroll through Facebook and Instagram. Concern that if I don’t change my attitude towards you as soon as possible, my daughter will learn to dislike her body too. Anger that society has made you so complex and complicated when you’re such a natural thing. 

Maybe someday, I won’t feel self-conscious at the idea of wearing a swimming suit. I’ll look at you and marvel in the fact that my body grew two babies. That you’re my badges of honor in doing the hardest thing possible for a human. A source of pride, a symbol of my strength, physical reminders of my journey into motherhood, beautiful marks. 

But I’m not there yet. 

But when I look at my daughter pretending to read to her baby brother, I do forget about you. 

When I snuggle my newborn at his 3 am feeding, you don’t even cross my mind. 

When I’m cleaning glitter off the counter from our craft activity, I don’t think about how you spread across my stomach and thighs. 

As my daughter runs to me, exclaiming “I have a present for you,” knowing it’s a “baby tiger named Zachary,” my own stripes don’t dawn on me.

While I look at my newborn and he smiles his big gummy smile, I can’t help but smile back and forget you exist.

When bedtime rolls around and I snuggle my toddler to sleep, she cuddles close with you without knowing my distaste for you.

Listening to the newborn coos and my toddler making jokes about her baby brother, I thank my body for creating my two favorite humans.

And maybe, just maybe, that means I’m starting to recognize that you are positive mementos, to be accepted and celebrated.