I have never been blessed with self confidence. Boys never chased me in school, I never won prom queen and I never looked that great in a dress. I can’t remember a single compliment from anyone other then my mother. I am not what one would call a pretty girl though I can hold my own in looks. I am not skinny nor fat, tall nor short. I am in the middle and I am perfect. I became pregnant with my first child in the spring of 1999. While my body did change, mostly I just got bigger and not well, pregnant. I worked my tail off that pregnancy. Waiting tables at a local breakfast restaurant. I worked 12 hours a day. No one asked me when I was due until after I was due. I never showed. My daughter was born on the first big snow of the year and my new body was born. I have always had these gigantic breast but when I was blessed with mother milk they grew to massive proportions. I was an H with her and nursed her well. Free of stretch marks and full of milk. I had it made. Some years later I became pregnant with my son. A much different journey I began. One filled with sadness and anger. I battle what some might consider post-partum, pre-partum. My brain was riddled with depression but my belly with hope. This time my belly grew and I documented it well. I looked pregnant, to me. Again though, very few noticed. Never a belly pat from family, not much attention at all. It ate at my soul and how I felt about myself and this new body. My son was born in the spring, with him sprung a new look at myself. I couldn’t help but marvel at how perfect he was and how I made him, perfectly. My body was different but somehow more perfect. Somehow I liked it better knowing what it could do. It could make babies. With all the stories of infertility and sadness. With all the hopes of carrying babies that are never filled, I could carry children, flawlessly. I had two to prove it. And while I lived under a horrible dark cloud, I pushed through, nursed my son and made out ok. Two perfect children out of my perfect body. In the fall of 2006 a pregnancy sprung up on me by surprise. Another little boy to join our family. We’d done it again. My body grew and I documented it again. In the window, proudly nude for the neighbors to see, I took silhouettes each month. This perfect body had created another human until that ultrasound result came. “Your son may have something wrong with his kidneys”, they said. And I cried. Had I failed this child? I had wondered early in my pregnancy if I was tempting fate. Had I? Had I tempted fate? The level two ultrasound proved a healthy little boy. It was just something that happens sometimes and our boy was healthy. Another miracle. Another one from my perfect body. Three perfect children from my perfect body. He was born on the 5th of July. He’s my independence baby. He gave me independence from feeling like I have to be perfect or thin or beautiful. They are beautiful and I had everything to do with that. I carried three perfect pregnancies, I birthed three perfect babies. My breasts have fed them all, almost perfectly. Each little stretch mark I received is a badge truly. A badge of motherhood and a badge of honor. I wouldn’t trade them for any bikini. I am perfect, every lump and bump of me.