The last three or four times I was on vacation, I was pregnant, so I didn’t really care what I weighed or how imperfect my body was while I was at the beach in a bathing suit.
But now I’m not pregnant, and I’m heavier than I’d like to be.
Twenty years ago, I would have been mortified by what my body looks like right now.
And my body isn’t bad. Especially for a 45-year-old chick who has given birth five times after the age of 35.
But my body isn’t flawless, which, up until fairly recently was always some unrealistic expectation I had for myself.
My stomach isn’t flat. I definitely have a muffin top. My thighs rub together. I have cellulite in some areas.
I’m a far cry from Jennifer Aniston in Meet the Millers. And we are the same age.
But this year I’ve accepted myself. I’m not worrying about covering up my less-than-perfect areas or covering up my flawed midsection.
I’ve run at least thirty miles since we’ve been in North Carolina. I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in since I got married. Even if I am carrying around a couple extra pounds.
And this comment from Number 3 as we were walking to the beach yesterday helped me remember that.
He was walking behind me, and he said to Number 4, “Look at Mom’s legs! They are so strong! Look at her muscles!”
And the extra inch(es) I had around my middle weren’t even a thought in my mind.
Because my son thinks of his mom not as a flawless woman, but as a strong one.
And that’s exactly the way it should be.