There’s a scar, an itchy little gray line from where he came
Flab, a touch of saggy loose flesh that won’t shrink
And breasts that have fallen from grace.
And still I feel more beautiful than I’ve ever been.
When little fingers intertwine in my hair
and examine the contours of my lips, I feel beautiful.
When I hold him close and hum
When I slow dance him down to sleep
When we snuggle to read a story
When he smiles at the sight of my face
I am the star that kisses the crescent moon at dusk
The sparkle of evening sun on the rim of a glass.
When his head nestles against my chest and I kiss the top of his hair,
I’m the cover of Vogue, the Leibovitz, the image on the gallery wall.
When he crawls in my lap
to blow raspberries on my breast
and tries to eat my nose
I am more beautiful than I have ever been.
Beautiful is measured not in body shape or fashionable jewels
but in glittering moments
Gauged not by what looks back at me from the mirror,
but in the totality of who I am because of him.
I carry myself like the world is mine
Because I am his.
It doesn’t matter what I look like
I feel the most beautiful I’ve ever been.
I am more beautiful than I’ve ever been.
I am more beautiful than I have ever been
because I became his mother.
I wrote this piece several months ago for a project between several collaborators that was supposed to come together in time for Mother’s Day. I haven’t heard anything since, so I think that project probably died on the vine, so I decided to go ahead and post this anyway.