Stretching ...

I remember when I was a little girl tracing the thick white scars on my mom's belly and asking why they were there. It was a typical innocent question on my part but sometimes those little questions come back to haunt you. I'm sure that she cringed at the pool in front of her friends as I pointed out her stretch marks. Then my memories shift off to other thoughts about the pool, like the drippy bathroom and the dark blue color of the deep end.
I'm sure she must have explained to me that stretch marks come from having a baby. I can't remember the conversation, but I'm sure she told me first. Which is why, I guess I expected the stretch marks to be exactly like hers, thick and white and healed over. No one explained to me that stretch marks come when your body trys to expand too fast and as a result tiny little tears riffle across your taught skin. It leaves red lines that eventually turn blue. It looks like someone dug their nails across your skin ... hard. It's really ugly.
For some reason I've felt sad all day since I discovered these marks. They feel so permanent. Somehow I always thought I wouldn't get stretch marks at all. Now I feel like my body will never be as pretty as it once was. And one day I will be cringing in front of my friends in a bathing suit by the pool as my daughter points out the scars I bore for her. Or maybe by then I will be proud of them because of the little girl that they represent ...