I Feel Pretty

I’ve often been told I look great for having six kids. 

Just recently while I was working in the yard, a passerby commented, “You look marvelous.  You’ve lost a few pounds and you’re not pregnant!”

Ouch.  Way to give a compliment.

I’m not delusional.  I know my kids could swing on my varicose veins.  I also know that no matter how many flat abs workouts I do, I will never again be able to tighten my core.  I’m not certain it’s even there anymore.  

On the upshot, at this moment, I do not have pink eye, ringworm or head lice.  I am, however, harboring the Lamisil monster under my left middle toenail. 

For all my shortfalls, I do still have some positive features.  Kenny loves to sniff my hair—though his fascination with it is bordering on creepy.  (He gets that from his father.)

When I think back to my adolescence and the amount of time I spent looking in the mirror, it’s hard to remember what it was like having extra hours of unblocked time to primp. I will admit that I really do need to set aside an extra five minutes in the shower though.  Stancey is refusing to share a razor with me saying, “It looks like Bigfoot shaved with it!  Gross!” 

There is nothing more humbling to a mother’s self-perception than the insults her children whip at her.  I’ll never forget the day Stancey cried all the way home from preschool when she hated my new haircut.  Or the day in Baker’s Square she asked me why I had spider houses in my nose and cracks in my eyes. 

My hope for her?  That someday she’ll have a daughter just as complimentary to her as she has been to me.

But for having six kids, I guess I’m not looking too bad.  My reproductive tract is not dragging behind me like fish poop; it only feels like it is.  As for my new hemorrhoid that sprouted around 3 a.m. this morning, it only reinforces my belief that my children are trying to kill me just a little at a time.  Things haven’t been the same since eleven pound Sam arrived nearly a decade ago.  I think he pulled out some important plumbing during his descent, or at the very least, carved his initials into my birth canal.

Am I really offended by my neighbor’s compliment?  Naww.    A compliment is a compliment no matter how it’s delivered.  And though my husband is very encouraging in the compliments he gives me, it’s partly his fault my body is the war zone that it is. 

I wonder, if I only had three kids, would I still look as great?