No, I'm not Heidi Klum. I still love my body. It's a little gooshy in places, heavier than it once was and it's on the short side. None of that matters. I love my body.
I love my feet. They seldom bitch about my preference for stilettos. They danced at my wedding and many other weddings, too. They paced the floor in patient labor and later walked the floor with my colicky baby. They love the feel of cool grass under them and make perfect figure-8s in the warm water of the lake. They sway absently to Michael Buble singing "Sway". They lift me on tiptoes to kiss my tall husband. I love my feet.
I love my legs that lift me, unaided, out of bed every morning. They carry me through my busy day and never give me a moment's trouble. They bend down to pet the dog and climb on a chair to reach the top shelf. They cross comfortably while I sit at my desk and tuck up under me when I'm relaxed. They bend right in the middle to kneel when I pray. I love my legs.
I love my middle. It's happy when I put the right kind of food in it, and scolds me when I break the rules.It was a safe place to grow my babies, stretching to enormous proportions...then somehow shrinking (somewhere near) back to where it was. It dips in enough to give me curves. I have an innie. I love my middle.
I love my rack. Yeah. I do. It fed my dear babies and has entertained the Sweet Hubs so many times I can't count them all. Not too little and not too big, it fits me. I love my rack.
I love my arms. They do a million things every day. They have held babies, lifted toddlers, water jugs, bags of dog food, furniture, trash cans and countless other things. They wrap perfectly around to hug someone and make people laugh when I show them my "bicep". I love my arms.
I love my hands. They are capable. Because of them, I can caress, create, clap.... and count. (har har har). They emphasize what I'm saying. They know how to do things automatically so my brain can focus on other things, like typing this post. They give me a place to go wild with cheap, blingy jewelry. My hands have touched my newborn baby's downy hair and the paper-skinned hand of my beloved Grandma. They held my father's hand as he lay dying. They trembled when Sweet Hubs slipped a golden ring on my finger and vowed to be mine, always and in all ways. They have planted and harvested, created and destroyed. They have expressed my thoughts and remained silent. They have been burned and cut, jammed and bent and sprained, and still they serve me every day.
I love my body.