Love That Belly?

The story I have about my stomach starts with a poem. 

I was eight, brown hair and green eyes

Long limbs, drops of chlorinated water beading on my tanned skin

Smiling in the sunlit afternoon

She was nine, black hair and pursed lips

Large eyes, studying my swimsuit clad form

Smiling in the sunlit afternoon 

"You have a potbelly" 

I was eight, brown hair and green eyes

Suddenly aware 

That my body 

Was something to be ashamed of

Some lessons only take a moment to learn 

But a lifetime to overcome

The story I have about my stomach continues with a photograph in which I force myself to expose it. 

I expose it with the hopes that somehow this gesture will open up something in me that will allow me to love it.

Love it for growing three beautiful babies. Love it for being a sacred space that holds my wisdom as significant and important. 

Love it despite the fact that I find it lumpy, bumpy, and ugly. 

That eight year old girl needs me to work harder at being kind to this belly of mine. I owe that to her. 

To us. 

The story I have about my stomach is not yet over, but now I know that it is up to me to write the ending.