This is a picture of me when I was eight months pregnant with Zibbit. I absolutely love this picture.

It was taken about two years ago, so it’s not that far back in my history, but I decided to use it because being pregnant was a very important experience for me. When my belly began to swell with my first pregnancy, I realized that it was the first time in my life that I truly felt like a woman. Suddenly I had curves! I was soft and supple. The sharp angles and boyish figure I had carried my entire life were now padded and feminine. The fact that I was actually creating a person inside my body was incomprehensible- even the second time. So much of my teenage years were spent ostracized and made fun of for not looking like a girl. I was tall, bony, lanky… completely unlike any other girl I knew. Pregnancy was a validation for me. It made me realize that my body had the same capabilities and strengths of any other woman, even if I felt different from them on the outside. I relished every move the baby made, and every pound I gained made me feel more beautiful.

Sometimes I look back on the pictures of me during my pregnancies, and think “how in the world could I have felt attractive when I looked like that?” I see the stretch marks and swollen feet and blotchy cheeks, and I cringe with embarrassment at having ever flaunted that bloated body. But then I remember the hours I spent examining my ever changing body with wonder. I remember running my fingers over my tight, strained skin, completely in awe of my body’s ability to stretch and conform to seemingly impossible limits in order to accommodate the growing life within. I felt like a living miracle, proof of the wonders God has created on this earth. I remember lying in bed at night and lifting up the sheet so I could let go and watch it waft gently down, draping across the curves of my breasts and my bulging stomach. I remember the intense feeling of femaleness that I had during my pregnancies, and it makes me look at the photos differently. Instead of criticizing every flaw and imperfection, I see myself the way I remember feeling: as a round, amazing, phenomenal woman. I don’t ever want to forget how I changed during my pregnancies. I’ll have the physical reminders forever- my C-section scar, my nursed-to-extinction breasts… but those are nothing compared to the changes I experienced emotionally. I am proud of my body, of what it has done and can do. And I am proud to be a woman.

This is the last photo for this month’s Self Portrait Tuesday theme, “Personal History”. To see more self portraits, go to the Self Portrait Tuesday blog.

Scene: A young mother, after a long day of running errands with her children, makes one last stop at the mailbox before driving into the garage. Expecting nothing more than junk mail and some bills, she reaches her hand deep into the box, and pulls out the large stack of paper. Casually scanning the pile of envelopes and grocery store coupons, she suddenly gasps, horrified, and drops the entire stack into her lap. Squealing with disgust, she wriggles her legs until everything cascades to the floor. She pokes the offending object with her foot, shoving it underneath the pile of mail littering the space between the two front seats. With it out of sight, she is able to put the car in gear, and with shaking hands guides the car up the driveway and into the garage. She whisks her children out of the car and into the house, locks the door swiftly behind her, and reaches for the phone to call her husband.

ring ring

Ammon: Hello?

Karli (weakly): Ammon?

Ammon (suddenly worried): What’s wrong? Are you ok? What happened?

Karli (hysterical): I can’t believe it. IN OUR MAILBOX! What was it doing there? Why?

Ammon: What are you talking about? What was in our mailbox? What’s going on?

Karli: Oh, it was AWFUL! I TOUCHED it! With my FINGERS! I have to wash my hands. Oh gross gross gross gross!

Ammon: Karli! Stop! Tell me what is going on!

Karli (whispering): It was a… a nudie magazine!

Ammon: In our mailbox? Are you sure?

Karli: YES I’m sure! I TOUCHED it! With my FINGERS!

Ammon: They must have gotten the wrong house. Did you see who it was addressed to?

Karli: It had your name on it Ammon. Your name and OUR ADDRESS. We’ll have to move. I’ll start looking for houses right away. Can you come home early we can start packing up oh maybe we should go stay in a hotel oh my gosh they know where we LIVE now I can’t believe this is happening so dirty dirty dirty-

Ammon (forcefully): KARLI! Get a hold of yourself! This is not that big of a deal. It must just be a mix-up.

Karli: How are you not upset about this? Aren’t you worried about… unless… it wasn’t… you didn’t subscribe to it did you?!

Ammon (laughing): Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous. Listen, don’t worry. I’ll call them and get it straightened out right away.

Dim lights. Close curtain.

Scene II, one week later:

ring ring

Ammon: Hello?

Karli (yelling): AMMON! WE GOT ANOTHER ONE! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF IT!

Ammon: Another… what? What are you… oh! Another one of those… magazine things?

Karli (still yelling): YES ANOTHER MAGAZINE! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CALL THEM!

Ammon: Sorry, honey, I forgot. I’ll do it right now. Call you back.

click

5 minutes later: ring ring

Karli: Hello?

Ammon: I took care of it. I still don’t know how they got our address, but they’re going to stop sending it.

Karli (relieved): Oh thank goodness. Thank you. Thank goodness.

Dim lights. Close curtain.

Scene III, two days later: The couple returns home from a night out. They stop to get the mail, this time only one personal letter and a small postcard. The card flutters to the floor of the car, and they reach down simultaneously to pick it up. Together, they read the bright red lettering on the back of the card:

Ammon and Karli: Ohhhhhhhh.

Ammon: It’s all coming together now.

Last night I had a dream. A very very scary dream.

I dreamt I was lying on an examination table in a doctor’s office, naked from the waist up. A bright light was pointed down at my breasts, and I could feel the heat radiating from the light- the rest of the room was very cold. A doctor came in with a serious expression on his face and began rustling papers and clinking metal tools, getting ready to perform the medical procedure. Snapping his gloves, he reached in his lab coat pocket and pulled out a little tub of… vaseline. Scooping out a generous glob, he began spreading the vaseline all over my breasts. Not checking for lumps or lubing me up for anything more serious- this was the entire procedure. Just slathering.

The vaseline smearing went on for some time. I was feeling pretty calm until I looked up and saw faces crowded over the table, watching. There was one woman I recognized from church, we’ll call her Dolly. The four other faces belonged to a group of college boys I had seen goofing off in the waiting room. Dolly and the college boys were staring at my breasts, their mouths open in shock and disbelief.

“Heh heh, yeah. That’s what happens when you nurse two babies,” I said.

Three of the boys started sniggering, but the one who had tried to flirt with me out in the waiting area remained frozen, clearly flabbergasted.

“If you leave your mouth hanging open like that you’re sure to catch a few flies,” I joked nervously.

Dolly spoke up, “I am never going to let that happen to my body.”

She left in a huff, snorting disgustedly and taking the three giggling college boys with her. Doctor Serious was still smearing methodically. Scoop, plop, smear. Scoop, plop, smear. The vaseline was dripping coldly off of my chest, down the side of my ribs. Astounded College Boy still hadn’t moved, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth still agape.

And then I woke up.

I think there are several things we can learn from this weird, freaky dream:

Number one: Even in my dreams, my boobs do not look good.

Number two: Doctors take their tasks very seriously, even if the task is ridiculous and pointless. They are still professionals!

Number three: Lovely ladies you know from church may seem nice on the surface, but they will jump at any opportunity to make fun of your boobs.

Number four: College boys are mean.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go research breast augmentation surgery.

I must be three or four years old in this picture. It was taken by my grandmother, out in her front yard. I spent so many warm summer days there, splashing through the sprinkler or climbing the big cherry blossom tree. In this picture I’m eating a popsicle; I remember listening intently for the tinkling music of the ice cream man, and then finally screaming with delight when he finally drove around the corner. My grandma would fish through her change jar for dimes and quarters, and I would race out the front door and down the driveway, wincing at the pain the gravel inflicted on my bare feet.

The dog in the picture is a chocolate lab named Yaz (named after the Boston Red Sox MVP Carl “Yaz” Yastrzemski- they named all of their pets after baseball players). In the photo his back comes up to my little waist; I remember loving the front end of this dog, and being terrified of the whacks given by the whip attached to his back end. Yaz had wanderlust, and we would often find him trotting down the street, blocks from home, his pink mouth widened into a huge grinning pant. My grandma was afraid of the dogcatcher, and I remember he would drive slowly down the street, calling and whistling to any unsuspecting pups lounging out in their front yards. My grandma would close all of the windows and blinds, and perch silent and nervous on the couch. I would lay on the living room floor with my arms around Yaz, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and excitement, convinced we were outlaws banded together in a delicious conspiracy against the bad guys.

I miss those lazy, innocent summers, when the days lasted as long as years and the summer months stretched out in front of you long and golden, September an infinity away. My days now are broken up, choppy. I’m always thinking about what’s about to happen next. You blink an eye and a month has gone by. Take a breath and you’ve lost a year already. It bewilders me sometimes when Babs falls apart, missing her daddy and not seeming to understand me when I tell her he’ll be home at dinner time. When I look at that picture and see myself at the age she is now, I realize that she actually understands me perfectly. In her world, a thousand little adventures will take place between now and dinner time and the day’s end is a lifetime away. Maybe it would be a good idea to keep this picture out where I can see it all the time. Perhaps if I try to remember what it was like to be the little girl me, it will help me understand these bundles of sugar and spice who call me their mommy.

This month’s Self Portrait Tuesday theme is “Personal History”. To see more self portraits, go to the Self Portrait Tuesday blog.

Yesterday morning, after wheedling and bribery failed to procure her another cinnamon waffle, Babs stamped her foot and exclaimed,

“You have to listen to me mom, today is my cranky day!”

Are you kidding me? I had no idea that was even a rule. If I wake up and put a sign around my neck that reads “I’m cranky” do I get stuff? Will someone bake me a cranky cake or something? Or maybe the mailman will deliver the mail to my doorstep, along with a bunch of yellow daisies. Then I can flip my sign over to say, “Better, thanks!” with a little smiley face. I think it just might work…