I've got cellulite in my cellulite

"When did I get so damn old?" I thought to myself just now when I looked in the mirror.

I think this a lot, actually. At least whenever I have the guts to look in the mirror. It's depressing, really. What used to be a small, flat stomach where the skin was mildly firm, now is a wider, rounder stomach where skin sort of "hangs" from when I was pregnant. Where I once had an adorable belly button ring is now just a small hole above some stretch marks that, as much lotion as I used during those 10 months, I couldn't prevent.

I look at my hair, hanging in no particular style on my shoulders and think about how I need SOMETHING done to it. I think about how it used to look good, or at least decent, and now it's just there, usually pulled up in a pony tail.

Then there's my face.

Ugh.

My pores have expanded to the size of potholes in Elgin Crossroads on that street between Subway and Big D's Burger House. I have acne on my forehead and chin that I can't resist the urge from picking at. I have splotches. I have red marks. I have those delightfully dark circles and bags under my eyes that would put Coach to shame. 

When and how and WHY did I let this happen to myself? Was it during those nights that Connor didn't want to sleep? Was it the days after when I was so tired that all I wanted to do was lay around? Was it during those last semesters of college when I was trying to work and be a mother and a student? Was it just last week when I looked at our bank account and automatically got a headache?

I look at my pictures on social media and try to figure out just when this devastation occurred. 

Listen to me whine. How terrible do I sound?

There is an Ebola epidemic in Africa, wars in the Middle East, the U.S. with it's own share of problems, and here I am complaining about the drab mess that has become my exterior. 

As terrible as that is, I can't help myself. 

Oh please. Don't give me that look of disappointment as you stare at your computer screen while the 10:00 news is on. 

Because, let's face it. When the news goes off and you go into your bathroom and look in the mirror, you will sigh too, whether it's voluntary or involuntary.

It's not like people don't tell me I'm pretty. My husband does (and he's really all that counts, right?). He tells me I'm beautiful and he loves me. But I wouldn't blame him at all if sometimes he wished I was still a size two, with semi-great boobs (as great as they can be naturally) and nice skin. 

Once upon a time, I had thought, "I won't want aging cream when I'm old. I will embrace my aging and be thankful that I have been able to live a long life. The wrinkles and laugh lines will just be part of my story, a part that people can see." 

I'm not even old yet. 

I am blessed that I carried a child for 10 months and that I have stretch marks to show where my son grew and developed inside me. I am blessed that my hair is messy because I don't have time to do anything to it since I'm running after this amazing little person who entered my life.

I know that.

No, there is no way that I would take back any of the wrinkles, breakouts, bad hair or big belly for him. He's totally worth it. 

But I'm selfish. 

...and maybe a little self absorbed.

Whatever.

One thing I promised myself and my husband before C was born, and I am trying to keep that promise, is that I would not criticize myself in front of my son. I don't want him to grow up with ideas that women aren't beautiful as themselves. I don't want him to grow up with the notion that a girl has to wear make-up to be pretty. I don't want him to grow up with the thought that a girl has to be a size two in order to be attractive. 

I want him to see women for who they are, for their personalities and sense of humor. I want him to see a girl and his breath be taken away by her kindness and morality. I want him to realize that what he's looking at is only a plus.

I could blame the media and society and a ton of other people for my poor self image. But what's the point in that? 

The only person I have to blame is myself. I am the one who looks in the mirror and can't see what my son sees when he looks at me. I can't see the Mommy, I can only see the "Mommy." I can't see what my husband sees when he looks at me, I can only see what he once saw. 

I can ask you to start trying to think of something positive about yourself when you look in the mirror, and tell you I'll do the same, but come on, neither of us is really going to do that. 

So what is the bright side to this post?

We can all be completely ugly and tired and stressed out and completely normal together. 

After all, that's how norms come about anyway, right?

What was I thinking?

Throughout my life I have made more than my share of questionable decisions.

And I really think becoming a parent was one of them.

Before you jump me, I'm not saying I regret my child. That's not it at all. If you read further, you'll understand.

Yesterday, C was playing with my full length mirror. I was in the bathroom putting makeup on and I heard the crash. I knew instantly what happened and all I could picture was my child in a "Carrie"-like scene with blood all over him and shattered glass everywhere. 

Thankfully there was no blood. But there was a lot of glass. A lot. 

And not for the first time, I thought, "Why did I do this?" 

I grabbed him out of his walker and checked him for blood. I didn't see him bleeding and I didn't see any glass protruding from his body, so I tried to calm him (and me) down. But the whole time, I thought, "Why did I do this? Why did I have a baby? I can't deal with this."

He didn't even get hurt!

When he fell off the couch a couple months ago and scared both my husband and I, I had the same thought. 

When I first began breastfeeding, I had the same thought.

Breastfeeding was demanding. I didn't get to sleep as much as I could have if we used formula (so I thought). If we used formula, he might stay full longer. If we used formula, he might sleep all night. What was I thinking trying to breastfeed?

To this day, those things above are all true. But as I've mentioned before, breastfeeding went beyond just how I chose to give my child nutrition. I needed it too. I needed the closeness.

I saw this quote on Pinterest (I think) that said something like, The first six weeks, you'll envy those who chose formula, but after six months, you'll be thankful you breastfeed.

That was totally paraphrased, but it basically just meant that if you keep on breastfeeding, if you keep trying, then it's worth it in the end.

Well that's true. 

So that makes me wonder if when I die, when I take my last breath, I'll think, "This was all worth it."

I say when I die, because I don't think I'll ever not worry about C. I don't think I'll ever not think, "Why did I do this to myself?" I'll never stop wondering what he's doing or why he's doing it. I just hope that no matter how old he gets, he'll still give me those sweet kisses and the warmest hug I've ever gotten in my life. I just hope that he'll still look at me with bright eyes full of love. I hope that he'll still smile whenever he sees me walk into a room. I hope that he will still love me just as much as he does in this very moment in time. 

And in that second, right before I close my eyes for good, I'll know why I did it.