My Guilt On Mother’s Day…

I always feel quilty.
I don’t share every other mother’s enthusaism when it comes to their stretch marks.
I don’t look at these marks on my stomach as "love" or badges of honor or as a reminder that I gave birth.
I look at these marks on my body as a trauma. 
One of the reasons I was scared to birth again.
The reason I haven’t looked in the mirror from the breast down in years.
The smooth skin on my stomach and the perky breasts before giving birth was what I knew,
The aftermath was what I had to get used to.
Hating it doesn’t make me less of a mother.
Wanting them gone doesn’t mean I regret being pregnant.
When did hating scars become equivilant to hating your child? 
I will always hate the skin that is mine now.
I will always hate the hanging overlap.
The fat.
The droopy breasts.
The waist line that disappeared.
I hate the way I have to suck my stomach in when I fuck for fear of my beautiful pussy being over looked by the stomach that dominates the scene, or the way I was having sex with a t-shirt on and the lights off to cover up everything I did not want my lovers to see, and I have that right!

It says nothing of my mothering, it says everything of my desire to have my old body back.

I loved being pregnant, I just hate what pregnancy did to my body.

I love my son, he was worth all the pain endured, yes, even the million tears that came along with motherhood, but,
I still have the right to miss my smoothless skin and perky tits.
I have the right to mourn a body I had to say good bye to.
I have the right to hate it.
I don’t have to love it.
I don’t have to embrace it,
I only owe that to my son,
not the scars...