I never knew I could find beauty in the fight to keep my eyes from sealing shut. There are days, most days, that I long for nothing more than to close my eyes, even for a moment. But after every light is switched and book is shut and cheek is kissed and it’s time now to grasp what I’ve so been longing… I’m not quite ready. I want just one more glance, one more gaze, one more sleepy grin.
I’ve been enthralled by the dazzle of perfectly curled hair, not a strand out of place, of sculpted figures, and neatly manicured nails extending from flawless skin creamed with honey and lavender. Admittedly, at times I still am. But nothing stirs in my soul quite like the rawness of the most genuine beauty I’ve ever known…
Motherhood: where glamour and grace are redefined.
I have traded my own skin for an entire body of porcelain, and I’ve never loved a figure more. Nose-grazing nuzzles with skin as dewy as the morning itself have replaced the moments spent slamming snooze buttons and fumbling to get out the door. It’s a whole new hustle these days. Sometimes frantic, but always covered in peace.
There are days I will agonize over the shape of my hair, brushing and spraying and teasing and gelling until it’s red-carpet-worthy with volume abounding. But it isn’t until the end of the day, when I’ve ditched the ‘do and pulled it back or whipped it to the side, that I like it best. There is something simply regal about the natural volume as a result of strands doused in baby puffs and mashed bananas and tangles formed from tiny curious fingers.
The contours of my stomach have been replaced with scars from the stretching of my skin – nine months spent housing a miracle – and these scars mark the road of the paths of redemption that led me know this beauty.
I have ached in places I never knew existed, from the depths of my soul to the most miniscule muscles in my back, and I revel over the curve of my newfound biceps fashioned from the ever constant clinging of babes and bags.
Nothing can tell me I’m beautiful quite like the glow of the eyes of my son, gazing into my own as I soak in the sound of his satisfied slurps – his tiny breaths a melody, my hair and heart a tangled mess.
I never knew the strength I possessed until I my breasts provided nourishment, tiny fingers tracing shapes across my chest. Until I gave all of me to give life to another. But in giving all of me I have gained more of me – a me that delights in the extra skin that cushions my babe as his shape fits effortlessly. A me that catches herself in the mirror and sighs, not out of disdain, but out of the enchantment of possessing such a glorious body, and I will forever celebrate this vessel of hope.
Lindsey Mullins, The Village Journalist