My Body is Ugly and Perfect

My son and I walk past shop windows and I catch an accidental glimpse of myself. Bad posture, bra straps showing my backfat (there ain’t no sucking in backfat), a too-big belly, too-large breasts and too many wrinkles on my face. Sigh. My Body is Ugly and Perfect.

I refrain from flipping my ugly body off in the window when I realize there are people on the other side.

My son grabs my hand in the way he does, where we hold hands the regular way except my index finger is interlocked with his pinkie.

I look at our hands.

I look at him.

I feel this body, both ugly and perfect.

My too-large breasts (that weren’t always so large) fed him when he was almost failure-to-thrive.

These legs of mine have carried me down mountains. They’ve propelled me from the bottom of the ocean, or at least as far as my scuba gear allowed me to descend.

This too-large belly gave birth to my favorite person in the world.

Secrets and worries are shared with me as my not-so-little little boy and I walk to the bus stop to kiss and wave goodbye each weekday. Some days, we drive. My body can do both still.

It’s the one my son wants to cuddle at 3am after a bad dream.

My body is flawed. Ugly.

“I wish I had the perfect body,” I think. “But you do,” something within me says. “Perfect enough, anyway.”

This body of mine is illness-free. My body is perfect. Healthy.

It is with this body that I’ve lived. Loved. Lost.

It’s stooped and floppy and has been mine since I became me.

This body made me a mom.

This body is mine as I see myself with all of my wrinkles and floppiness in the window, for I have sight.

My body listening to 80’s music with my son, for I still have hearing. “Bohemian Rhapsody,” he calls from the back seat after just a few notes. My face smiles, pleased for simple perfect moments.

We walk to the park, for I still have mobility.

My body wakes to a crying eight-year-old at 3:00 a.m. for I have compassion.

My body is here, doing homework, for I retain basic math skills.

I think about this life, for I still have memory.

My Body is Ugly and Perfect.

It thinks about tomorrow, and the ones to come, because I still have hope.

My body gave birth to a boy so he could dance in the sea at twilight.

Wrinkles, jeans in a drawer that may never fit again, and nights when I wonder whether I made the most of my youth are only thoughts.

Making the most of now, and tomorrow, with this boy, is happening because of this (hopefully) only half-way used up body of mine.

My body was here for my birth. It was ugly and perfect.

My body will be here for my death. It will be ugly and perfect.

My body is mine.

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post in its new format. This week is a 5-minute stream-of-consciousness post using the prompt “When it comes to this body…” Link up here or with my (still-pretty-new and always-awesome) co-host Kenya at Sporadically Yours.