Scars

After the baby was born, the obstetrician encouraged me to look at my scar. Overweight women, she said, needed to look especially closely at the scar to learn how to spot an infection. I told her I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to look there yet. Now, my daughter is fascinated by the baby’s exit strategy from my womb.

“Show me the scar from where the baby was borned,” she’ll say in the shower, when I’m changing, sometimes when I’m cooking dinner. I have to look at the scar to point it out to her. Thin, with thicker spots at each end where the stitches pulled in those early, painful days. Jiggly, from 95 pounds (and counting) lost from my frame since August.

“I wasn’t borned this way, was I?”

“No. You came out of my vagina. The baby couldn’t make it out that way, so the surgeon cut the baby out of my tummy.”

“But you still have scars from when I was borned, right?”

Oh my sweet darling girl. The scars are there, just hidden.

I’m not sure I’m brave enough to look at those yet.

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