There are days I absolutely wish I was not a woman. Maybe the first day of my period when I was going to go out and do something amazing and then the cramps start and the bloat and I feel terrible about myself as zits explode across my forehead and something ugly grows on my nose and there is no amount of lotions or potions that going to make it go away.
But I love being me.
I have never loved being myself more than I do at this age. I didn’t want to tell anyone how old I was during my twenties. I thought it was cute making people guess. Now I can only roll my eyes when I think of my silly self. How immature was I? It’s strange because I am always thinking at every age that I am more grown and so mature and then a few years later Jane and I can laugh at ourselves. I love being a woman. I love that I am blessed with the ability to carry life within my body. No man will ever have that joy. They will never know how that feels. That makes me unique as a woman. That makes being a woman magic. The curves I have. Although now that I think about it … there are so many men out there who are now as curvaceous as I am thanks to a little plastic surgery.
I love that I can cry and be okay with it. Although it hard to cry around my children and my mother doesn’t tolerate it. I love my tears. My ability to show emotion. Even if my children are around. It’s important for them to see I am not an android.
And the way I feel when that man looks at me. Stares at me. Especially after I’ve made the effort to wash my hair and put on a little make up. But who am I kidding. He looks like that at me anyway.
I have probably never thought about this but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sexy in my own skin. Just sexy. Not slutty or smutty. Just empowered. I don’t care about those stretch marks. They are proof of my body becoming stronger. I don’t care about the faint wrinkles. They are my lines of laughter and joy and life. I’ve shown emotions all over the place. I’m not going to hide it.
My stomach might be sagging and my boobs,droopy. My bum is a soft pudgy thing that jiggles when I go out for a morning jog. But I still turn heads. I am still beautiful. I am worth taking care of. I am totally worth doing something lovely for myself at least once a month.
I love being a woman. I don’t think I’ve realised how much I’ve neglected myself and my dreams and my desires and what a negative impact that has had on the people I love the most until a few weeks ago.
It’s something I have a responsibility to teach Chloe as her mother. I owe it to her to do that.