meditations of a blueberry

Today is my birthday. 34 years ago I was a squishy newborn curled up in my mom's arms as my mom was amazed, terrified, and in awe that she was now a mother and wholly responsible for the new life before her (or at least, I imagine that's how she felt because that's how I felt when my first was born). I came into the world surrounded by love, chocolate cake, and crocheted blankets. 34 years later and I am once again surrounded by love, chocolate, and a crocheted blanket from my Nana. 34. 34 is the age that I picture my mom at when I think of her. Sometimes with a perm, sometimes with short hair. But always full of love, even when I hurt her in ways that only a teenager can hurt a parent. 34. I don't feel 34. I swear yesterday I was graduating high school and getting ready for university, but that was almost 16 years ago. Now I'm closer to my 20 year reunion than my 10 year reunion. I think back to my 18 year old self and wish I could tell her that her life ...

My body is not perfect. My skin is not tight and smooth. I have lumps and bumps in all the wrong places. My muscles do not make themselves known by sight alone.  My belly wiggles and jiggles when I move. I have rolls on my back and rolls on my belly. Thanks to my diastasis, my belly pouches out, likely making strangers wonder if I am currently pregnant. Even my breasts are not immune and due to aging and pregnancy, they are larger and no longer as perky as they once were. Stretch marks stretch across my belly like some sort of weird road map to nowhere, some of them still angry and red, some turned silvery. My hair has strands of silver and white peppered throughout it. No, my body is not "perfect." There are "rules" to having a perfect body, even a postpartum body, and mine does not follow them. It must be tight. It must have curves in all the right places and none in any of the "wrong" places. It must not show any signs of aging or any signs that a ...