The flesh heap

I should have taken a picture of myself naked before I had kids.  Now I have no proof that my stomach hasn't always looked like the underside of a geriatric man's ball sack when I bend over.


Last week during the gallbladder ruckus, the ultrasound tech said, "what's this huge scar on your stomach?" Why, it's the leftover dark line that ran stem to stern during pregnancy, thank you, that should have gone away months ago but now has lingered long enough to threaten permanency.  Then the gall bladder surgeon said, "your belly button is herniated." Why, yes, also thank you, that belly button used to be quite charming but now looks like an flabby eyelid drooped over an empty eye socket.


Maybe the problem is not that my parts have been trashed, but that I'm still holding on to some kind of vanity about them. I need to remind myself that kids or no, at some point in life my bikini days would have been over, though probably not so emphatically, so quickly. All and all, it was more than worth it to give up those few extra years to have those awesome little girls. 


But I still wish I had that naked picture.