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A good friend directed me to this site and I love it! It’s great to see real women accepting and loving their bodies!

Fifteen weeks ago, on June 9th, I gave birth to my third daughter. I had no complications during my pregnancy, labour, or birth but for unknown reasons, our beautiful baby girl wasn’t able to stay with us. Abby Angel lived for 7 hours and 10 minutes, and the pregnancy pictures I’ve posted here are so precious to me. I was almost 38 weeks pregnant when I gave birth and despite my issues with my body image, I know I grow beautiful, healthy babies.

24 weeks, side view

36.5 weeks

my daughter giving her baby sister ‘hugs’, just 5 days before Abby was born

Abby, less than 2 minutes old

I have more pictures and entries about my pregnancy, Abby’s death, and my journey as a student midwife on my blog.

Hey — Maybe you’ve received this before, but I was listening to Ani Difranco’s spoken word piece, _My IQ_ off of her _Puddle Dive_ CD. In it, she says: “I’ve got highways for stretchmarks, so I can see where I’ve grown.” I like that a lot. I’ve been lamenting my non-baby induced stretchmarks of late, but I like the idea that those lines mark more than physical growth. I imagine, after having a child, I will feel my stretchmarks demonstrate tremendous personal and emotional growth.

Thanks for keeping up this blog. — Cora D in Portland

I’m so flaky these days… I was supposed to add this to her post but totally forgot until this morning. D’oh! Sorry!

So, the Mothering.Commune boards are lovely. I just got involved. I love it.

Well, as you all know, I stopped breastfeeding. Moire weaned at 7 weeks. I have no breast tissue. And the only thing keeping me half-sane was knowing I’d tried EVERYTHING in my power to do the best for her. And now, I’ve got another option. I want to take it. I NEED to take it.

Plus, if I can grow breast tissue, I need an SNS to maybe start Moire nursing again. One of the longterm SNS’.

First of all, thank you to Melissa DiMartino-Yuen for her entry. She gave me the courage to face up to myself and try to work past the pain I feel towards my body.

I’ve always been overweight. It’s just been a fact of my life. When I was diagnosed with PCOS at the age of 16, it made sense. And the doctor told me that unless I was on medication and under the care of a doctor, I’d probably never conceive and even then, there was no guarantee.

However, 3 years later, without being on the medications that made me feel less than human, and without trying at all, my husband, then boyfriend, conceived a baby. What a surprise it was. But I welcomed it.

But even though I’d never had body issues before, they began to slowly crop up during my pregnancy. Because of my weight, I never showed in the true sense of the word. I never had anyone ask when the baby was due. No one could tell I was pregnant. Even when I went to the doctor at eight months pregnant, she guessed I was just a few weeks along as I wasn’t showing.

But the feeling of that baby moving in my womb eclipsed it all. Besides the baby belly thing, I felt amazing. I felt normal, health wise, something that had never happened to me before. And it was amazing. And because I’d kept on my diet and stuff, I knew my pregnancy was normal. And I strived for a normal labour and delivery, a birth center birth. However, 30 hours into labour, I wasn’t progressing enough, my water had broken, and I was exhausted. I ended up in the hospital, with a pitocin drip and an epidural.

But I never lost my resolve to give my daughter the best entrance. So despite what the doctors wanted, I didn’t relent to a c-section. And I gave birth VAGINALLY to my beautiful 7 pound 3 ounce baby girl. It felt amazing to know I’d done it. The nurses even told me they thought I’d be a c-section for sure, due to my size. What a feeling.

But then the fun began. I’d set my heart on nursing, giving my daughter the best start. Helping her possibly avoid the obesity that plagued my life. And I did nurse her. She was a champion nurser. And the pride I felt in giving her that was amazing…the first few days.

And then she began to scream. She quit wetting diapers. Her fontanel sunk in. My baby was sick, and I knew why. My milk never came in. And an IBCLC confirmed my worst fears: I couldn’t breastfeed. During puberty, my breasts never developed. And during pregnancy, they still didn’t develop. The PCOS that hadn’t hurt my ability to conceive apparently did make it impossible for me to feed my daughter. I’d never felt any breast tenderness. And no one asked. When I should have been preparing myself in pregnancy, I was dealing with so much else. So, all of a sudden, I had a bottle-fed baby. And I hated my body for it.

I feel betrayed. I feel like less of a woman. I know I am a woman, I gave birth. But I feel like LESS because I couldn’t give my daughter the very best. I feel ugly and deformed. And it hurts me everytime I make her a bottle because I’m missing out on a glorious part of motherhood. She’s missing out on so much health and bond promoting goodness.

Thank you for this site. It’s really cathartic to write this. I’m crying, but I feel like I’m getting somewhere. I did my best to give my daughter the best. I struggled with fenugreek, SNSs, pumps, etc for 7 weeks before she weaned. I know I did everything I could. But it’s still something that hurts. And it will for a long time. :(

Here are my pictures:

My baby belly: Notice how I’m sorta holding rolls of flub, and not a true round belly

In labour:

My champion newborn nurser:

The breasts that failed me:

So, a couple weeks ago now, someone sent me a link to a website with photos of Kate Hudson in a bikini and some really cruel comments about her stomach. Frankly, I had a hard time seeing what was so horrible about it (though maybe a little underweight in my opinion), but maybe my idea is a little different than most of America’s these days!

Anyway, it might be cheesy, and I know it’s not likely she’d ever even read any of the letters, but I was toying with the idea of asking the readers here to write to her. Writing to give support and thanks for being beautiful and not covering up. I thought that if we all write something similar on the envelope – or maybe use the same color envelope? – then maybe if one letter was noticed the rest would be easier to pick out, if they wanted to read more.

So, what do you think? Good idea? Lame? Opinions, please!

Found a comment linking to this where this site was recommended by readers. Thanks, everyone!

Does anyone know if it’s OK to post contact information for a celebrity? Not a personal address or anything, of course, but a publicist’s address or something? If that’s not ethically wrong, I have a mission for you all! :)

This week has been hectic with a new routine and trying to figure out this whole homeschooling thing for my four-year-old. On top of that I’m corresponding with some people trying to get the blog moved over FINALLY. And, also, I’ve run out of submissions for the moment so there hasn’t been much to post this week. :) As soon as that picks back up I’ll post more. But for now, just a note to let you all know I’m not dead or anything. :)

Have a great weekend if I don’t “see” you before then!

Found this article just now. Thumbs up!

This deeply beautiful and touching blog entry was written by Brianne, originally for her own blog, Magdalena’s Revenge. She feels it best noted that, while there is nothing inapropriate in her blog, she does occasionally use colorful language. ;)

Monday, August 28, 2006
Me

Right now, the streets are slick with rain, the sterile lights above the pavement cast an empty, silent glow over the puddles making the water glitter. It is late and D is already asleep, though I have left his side only seconds ago. In the shower I wondered to myself as I watched the double-lined shadow of my breasts on the wall turn slowly with my movements, what exactly have I given myself credit for in my lifetime? I notice these shadows and think only of how much lower they fall now that I am a mother. But I forget so easily that this body has protected 2 of the most amazing creatures I have ever seen, brought them into their very existence. It has been abused until it could only silently scream out, giving those animalistic signals that it was in danger. The face went pale, the body limp, the sight black, and yet, it came back around to me. It came back not for me, but to me. What have I done with it to show my appreciation?

These lips parted and whispered out words that meant something to someone, they live alone to kiss the round, elastic cheeks of my children. These fingers have been hurt, rolling hot wax over and over onto strands of hair to make money. They have typed and written the endless dialogue, a fair representation of what is inside this mind. They have gotten the point across, most of the time. They have caressed injury, and have made fists in anguish. They have grasped the bars of a hospital bed and clenched in pain; desperate, unfathomable pain.

These eyes have seen it, they have seen the beauty of a moment, what it can bring. They knew from the instant they saw one of those moments, life would be different, and they were right. They have watched too much news and have cried for other people. They can’t lie, and they don’t try to. They are older than I am and they are getting tired of me.

These feet and legs have stood, swollen and bloated until blue-purple explosions came forth, telling the story of my stance; working until days before I was due. They have stomped like a horse trapped in a stall, trying to get the blood to flow, to get the feeling back. They have trembled in nervousness, they have held me up when I thought that something non-physical could crumple me to the ground. Emotions can’t break them, they have stood and stood and still, they stand.

This hair. What can I say? It had been controversial at best. It has been all different colors to reflect my moods, it has been gone, absent from class. It has been trying hard to grow, and I kept stunting the process. It has taking it’s lashings, and now it is long and falls softly over my shoulders in appreciation. It has hidden my face, covered those eyes,one finger tangled gently in a thinking position while I wrote. It has been a compliment to me on several occasions, by people who don’t know what it’s like to really have hair like this. I always say I hate it, but I am secretly in love with it. I take it down from it’s wrap and press the still-wet strands to my nose, inhaling the scent of my shampoo. I dangle it
over the baby and play peek-a-boo with it, wondering why I ever disliked it. I lay above D, and let the strands tickle his nose until he blows them away with his mouth.

These ears have heard the flurry of activity when my sons were born. They heard D announce that they had arrived, and heard the first crackling screams. Life hurts and I have heard it. I have heard laughter of all kinds, I have been laughed at. I have heard all 5 breaths that belong to this house, a communal heaving, and it has put me to sleep. I hear D snoring from the other room.

These breasts have been pulled, pinched, bitten, and pierced. They have been swollen with milk, they have been punched, they have been fallen on top of and manhandled. They have been pressed on,up against, and rolled over. It’s a wonder they haven’t figured out how to scream yet.

My stomach has been shrunken, expanded, overfilled, smashed by a uterus, and pummeled by bullies. It has been slapped and smacked, it has been caressed and kissed, starved even, and it has still come back to me.All of it has come back to me. Lucky, lucky I am for this body.