As I grow you sweet child my body is erupting in stretch marks. Bright red lines that sneak up my hips, from my pelvis to my navel and threaten to continue with every centimetre I promise to expand.
I will not pretend to believe that they are beautiful. I will not pretend that they are a most desired side effect of our time spent together. I will not promise to stop myself from lathering them with whatever silly remedy I can find. I will be excited when I wake up and find they are faded to a white scar.
However, my sweet, I simply refuse to continue hating these marks. I refuse to hate anything about your mother. I refuse to hate anything about the body that has grown you so perfectly. I have trusted this body to draw air even when I didn't think I wanted to. I trusted this body even when I thought I might be infertile. We can trust this body to stretch and scar in whatever way it sees fit. I will trust this body to bring you Earthside - to rip and stretch and scar if it must.
I refuse to listen to society's standards on beauty: I do not enjoy these marks either, but they are a sign of life, of ever-evaporating youth and the circle of life.
Like an unwanted gift, I am not thrilled to receive these marks. Like a tacky heirloom I will put them on display to show those around me my history. I refuse to let these marks we have grown together stop me from feeling the sun on my bare skin.
You have given me these marks, my sweet, and as you grow I will watch them fade - surrendering my youth as I wrinkle and grey, watching you grow from infant to child. I love this body that has unselfishly grown you, I trust it with all that I am. That is exactly as I love you - you are of me, part of me - thank you for residing within me. I trust you, my sweet.