My body takes its time to make her.
Before I even realize she is there, she is beginning to bloom within me. Not long and her heart begins its beating. Keeping rhythm with mine.
Ten little fingers and ten little toes wiggle within. Blue eyes and soon to be freckled skin take shape in their own timing.
My body knows exactly how to make the crooks of her elbows. I eat sour patch kids and hope I haven’t ruined her.
Soon my skin is stretched and marked blue. My bowling ball of a belly keeps me from sleeping.
That and the anticipation screaming inside–
who will she look like?
how bad will it hurt?
can I do this?
what if something goes wrong?
no, but really, how bad will it hurt?
My body gladly takes a beating as it makes room for her growing. Organs that used to have the run of my stomach, are now stuck in the corner working overtime for two. The bladder of a bird beckons me back and forth to the bathroom, I become another pregnancy cliche.
Forty weeks and one day it takes to form her. The world keeps turning.
She’s here on Christmas morning.
And by January first I’m stuffing myself back into jeans that once fit a whole lifetime ago.
My body has taken its time to make her and I have given my body no time. To recover, remake, or renew.
I have fallen back into believing I am what I look like,
not what I do.
I spend my nights for almost a year in front of my mirror, tears hitting the wood floor at my feet, saying thank you to a body that took its time to make her. Relearning what it means to love the body that took its time to make her.
So that she’ll know she is not what she looks like,
she is what she does.
And she is the kindness of her soul, the smile on her lips, the laugh deep in her throat. She is the way she makes people feel, the brightness of her brain, and the color of her words. That she is beautiful.