Apparently, my baby stole my body.
Maybe ‘stole’ is a little harsh, but it would seem that she took it away and is currently holding it hostage.
Apparently, it will be held against its will until the point that I win it back. Or beg for it back. Or work for it back.
Because getting my body ‘back’ is something that is supposedly coded into my genetic make-up, as a woman who has birthed a child. It seems that getting my body ‘back’ is a requirement that I shouldn’t be questioning.
But what if, and I’ll say this with a whisper… what if it’s not a requirement at all?
What if we, as mothers, actually embraced our postpartum figures? What if we cherished our bodies and valued what – and who – they have so skillfully created instead?
Because if there’s one thing that I’ve learnt about motherhood, it’s that there is no going ‘back’.
I cannot turn back the clock to cuddle that bundle of terrifying doe-eyed love, back when she was small enough to cradle in one arm.
I cannot turn back the clock to re-watch my daughter’s eyes sparkle at her first sight of rolling waves.
I cannot turn back the clock to re-live the joy of watching her taste a lemon for the first time.
In truth, there is only The Now. And tomorrow.