I have a child and yet I have never heard her cry. Pregnancy dosnt mean new life to me, I lost all happieness and innocence that I ever had. I’m 23 years old, weigh 143 pounds and have an angel instead of a child… I was happy with my prebaby body, 120 pounds, 5’2″, adequate chest, perky butt and a flat tummy. I was thrilled to be pregnant but the entire pregnancy I fought with the scale. I knew being pregnant I would gain weight but that still didn’t make it easier to watch the numbers climb every week. I remember the first time none of my clothes fit. We had dinner plans with friends and I literally destroyed my closet looking for something presentable to wear. I ended up crying on the floor and canceling my plans. It sucked. The rest of the pregnancy I wore my husbands shirts and sweatpants. And then the first stretch mark showed up and I slathered on every kind of coco butter and lotions I could find. Then the next day another popped up. And another. And another….no matter what I did I could not control the dark purple vertical infection that was taking over my breasts, tummy and sides. I made peace with myself at about 8 months that it all was going to happen wether I liked it or not. That when I had the baby I would breast feed, go on walks with the baby sleeping in the stroller, that I would exercise and I would loose the weight in no time. Then I went into labor. We had our bags packed and car seat in the car ready to go a month before hand. All that was left to do was spot clean her room to be sure it was absolutely perfect. One could say it was fit for an angel. Then the supposed to be best day of my life turned into the worst. At 41 weeks my baby lost her life, the doctors could not find her heartbeat. So in the end not only did my body become something I hate to look at, but something I hate to be in. It betrayed me. Women are meant to make babies, but my baby was killed by my own body. To go home still swollen and with a body of a new mother but empty handed is the worst feeling ever. It has been just over a year since I planned my babies funeral and although I still hate my body for killing my baby girl, I can’t help but embrace my mommy body. It’s my physical proof that I am a mother. That my baby DID exist. And each mark is because she grew, she kicked, she wiggled and turned. It was her only home, how can I hate it entirely?