When I look in the mirror now, I am ashamed.  Not ashamed of what I look like—not at all– but ashamed of the realization that 10 years ago, I would have chosen death over this.  What is This?  All of who I am.

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Tragically, my preference for death over flesh was exercised and explored with obsessive fidelity, and I wallowed there for far too long.  In our culture of gleeful exposure and public self-flagellation, the things I did to myself might be considered both shameful and titillating, but I’ll spare you all the gory details. ( I do see, if you’re wondering, a clear distinction between sharing the beauty and glory of bodies, birth and my truth vs. sorrow voyeurism as a genre.) I am not ashamed of what I did to myself, I am saddened by it.  I wasted so much energy and effort; life.  I could have spent that time thinking and writing, making and creating, helping, loving.

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I think it is difficult for women and men to talk coherently about what our bodies mean, and how our bodies feel, because in a sense we are not our bodies, we are our thoughts, experiences, beliefs, viewpoints.  We are the impact we have on the world and other people.  But paradoxically, we most certainly are embodied.  We occupy our bodies, and yet our bodies *are* also expressions of our selves.  Our worth is not in our appearance, but it is ridiculous and foolish to claim that appearance doesn’t matter, or that it shouldn’t.

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Those of you who follow the Bauhauswife Facebook page might remember the public message I received just a couple of weeks before Cosmo was born.  In it, an individual described how horrifying Felix’s birth video is.  They accused me of child abuse (because my kids witnessed their sibling’s birth) and neglect (because their hair is unkempt in the video).  This was disturbing, but also ridiculous.  (Anyone with a sense of decency and humanity can clearly see in the documentation of Felix’s birth and throughout this blog, that my children are loved, adored, cared for, brilliant, and attended to, and that despite some different choices that Lee and I have made, we are normal people, good people.)

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What I did find especially surprising and shocking in the message, was the contempt and cruelty expressed about my body.  The person responsible for these comments identified themselves as female, (and frighteningly, also stated that they had been teaching public school for 10 years, the suggestion being that they are, perhaps, an arbiter of good taste and decorum).  Maybe their sex or gender doesn’t matter, (but perhaps it does?) My mother, during a phone conversation with me, questioned whether or not this individual was actually a woman.  How could a woman says such horrible things to another woman?  I love my mum, and I marvel at her naiveté (as I did even when I was little).  Women are awful to each other.  Another symptom of our profound self-hatred.

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Cosmo’s birth story and photo-essay was shared widely.  In a thread that showed up on my fb news-feed,  I noticed that another woman (unknown to me) had reacted to Cosmo’s story, with the following: “Wow, I hardy ever see images of less-than-perfect breasts.  I would never have been able to share those photos”.

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Not only are my breasts perfect (Yes, perfect), but they are mine.  They have nourished six children, and every time I bring Cosmo to my heart to feed him, I bless this beautiful perfect body.  am so grateful for the miracle of having been born myself, and for the miracle of bringing forth life.  I felt so sorry for this poor woman.  “Less-than-perfect” is such a terrible lie to live up to.

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I loved being pregnant, and I love this amazing time with my newborn.  He is tiny, and I can carry him in the crook of my arm, nuzzled into the softness of my belly.  Over the next few months, I will continue to eat healthy food, and I will gradually feel like moving my body more vigorously than I felt inclined to do while I was pregnant and heavy and slow, or now, when I am snuggling this tiny boy.  In about a year, in conjunction with Cosmo’s creeping away from my arms to explore the world, I will likely be lighter and harder.  I do love feeling strong and healthy.  Strength and health comes in many different iterations.  In any case, everything changes, and no one really knows what’s coming.  What I do know, is that I have work to do, and no time for self-pity, or envy, or dissatisfaction, or addiction, or obsession.  What choice do any of us have other than to love our one body and our one life…or not?

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I hope this post doesn’t come across as smug or self-congratulatory.  If you feel stuck, I’ve been there too, and while I wish I could offer helpful insight, what I can guarantee, is that everything will shift, continuously, always, even you.

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It is interesting to come up against the discomfort that my present comfort in myself inspires in others.  I have been working on my finishing my book “Nourished Kids” lately, so all these conversations feel quite prescient.  There is lots to talk about, but in essence, I love my body, I appreciate it, I feel comfortable and happy and ok with my self,  I don’t look at other women with envy,  I am satisfied.  These sentiments, I realize, are threatening.  I want other women to feel free as well.  How did this happen for me? I’m not really sure.  I grew up.  Getting older has helped.  Getting comfortable with reality has helped (realizing that wishing things were different than they are is the height of insanity has helped).  Being married to a beautiful man whose body is failing him terribly has, agonizingly, helped.  My body works.  I rarely experience physical pain.  How long will that last?  Maybe just for this present moment, so I’m going to love it while I can.  Having children has most definitely helped.  I made them, and I love them, so how would it be possible not to love myself?  They are me.  Hating myself would  necessarily extend to a hatred of them, or a tacit hatred of what their bodies will *one day* be.  I refuse to do that.  When I look at my children, they are, unequivocally, perfect: bug-bitten, grubby, all of it.  Treva has a scar on her forehead from when the corner of a book gouged her when she was only a few months old, and she has a plantar’s wart on her big toe: perfect.  One of Horus’ soon-to-fall-out front teeth is slightly discoloured: perfect.  Until recently, Cosmo’s right eye was bloodshot from the birth process: perfect.   I love my body with the same inevitability as I love them:  We are here, this is us.   On the other hand, Self-love is self- imposed; a decision.  It *is* possible to make a choice to defy these power structures (internal and external) that subordinate us, or to which we give permission and access to our souls.  We can reclaim birth, and our bodies as simply perfect, without any caveats or exclusions.