Mommy Makeovers?

I received a news email from a feminist group I'm a part of, which included a link to an article about a clinic in LA that does what they call "Mommy Makeovers." I couldn't help myself and I went directly to the website. There were client stories, including before and after photos. After choking down my gag reflex, I felt really sad.

Sad because I know how these women feel. Sad because they bought into the lie. Sad because I sometimes get sucked into believing the lie. Sad that we, as women, are still looking to men to define us, fix us. Sad that there are men who have also bought the lie, and are naively thinking they are helping us.

I'll admit that when I'm without son, I feel fatter, schlumpy. No, make that downright frumpy. With son, I feel as though I have a badge that proclaims to everyone "This is my excuse for not being thinner, more put together, more easy on the eye."

I stopped all inflow of media into my house that I knew would make me feel insecure. No fashion magazines, not even under the guise that it's the "artistry" involved. No regular television programming. No fitness magazines, I know how to exercise. Nothing. And with this preemptive action, I cut my insecurity in half. And, am saving myself money to boot.

Then, under the guise of health and wanting to keep up with son, I head to the gym, and become a little more self-conscious, although perhaps that's because of the beefy military guys who hang out there for hours (I swear!), who I know are checking me out because they are desperate for anything at this point (so husband says). I pretend like I own the place and do my thing.

I lost 8 lbs in one day last week. I got gastritis and basically shat out the contents of my stomach, intestines... It took me an entire 5 days to recover. I gained 3 lbs back, but I'm not too upset about that. More alarming is the fact that I'm not as bummed about missing a week of working at the gym, or the pain of a chapped butt for that matter, because the payoff was weight loss.

I've started to see beauty in many of the women around me. Normal women. Women who Hollywood and NYC Fashion wouldn't so much as glance at. Low-hanging breasts. Wide hips. Hairy armpits. Left-over baby pooch. All strong. All beautiful.

I had stretch marks long before I got pregnant, the result of a major growth spurt during puberty. I had long figured there was nothing I could do about them, so I never worried. I got more on my belly late in the pregnancy. They've turned silver now, along with the rest, but I can feel the bumps. They are my rite of passage. First into womanhood, then into motherhood. In a society that has little ritual for such rites of passage, I'll take them. They are mine. They are what separates the girls from the women, the women from the men. No Mommy Makeover for me.

ARRR! I am Mother, hear me roar!