My 3 yr old has a teddy bear - "Bear" - that he has had his whole life. It was a gift from a coworker to me shortly before he was born. Bear came to the hospital and rode home with the Monkey in the car seat. It is a tan colored bear that once upon a time played music, nature sounds, and a heart beat. As my mother and I drove across country with my 2 week old Monkey in the back seat (My husband and I were moving) Bear was propped on the Monkey's feet, with in easy reach to turn on the heart and soothe a crying infant.
Bear slept in the bassinet and in the crib. Early on the Monkey learned that if he hugged Bear, Bear made music. The Monkey loves music. At odd times throughout the night Bear's music could be heard through the baby monitor - most often when the Monkey woke up and needed help to get back to sleep.
The Monkey's love for Bear has not diminished as he has gotten older. No other flashy stuffed animals have manged to take Bear's place. Bear is not shared - and he is the only toy the Monkey will not let his little brother hold. Bear's music died last summer thanks to a trip into the pool. The Monkey thought Bear would like to go swimming with him. Bear's once robust and cuddly figure is noticeably flat and limp due to a tear in his back that leaked fuzz into the washing machine... Bear has seen better days, but the Monkey does not care. His love is constant.
Seeing the perfect love my child has for his frayed and beaten teddy made me think - why can't we have that kind of love for ourselves? Why is it so hard for me to love myself, to love my body despite all of its flaws. Why can't I love my body for the things it has done well, done without complaint, and often done in spite of the abuse I have given it.
My body faithfully carried, protected and housed the monkey for 41 weeks (he has always been stubborn). It fed him for 7 months after he was born. My body healed itself from the loss of the baby it could not keep. It quickly nurtured and grew my little Moose baby shortly there after. My body can rejoice in a kiss or hug from my children or a caress from my husband. My body carried me on shaky legs done the aisle and stood proudly as I married my husband.
My body has taken me skiing, horseback riding, running, and walking. My body used to be able to do cartwheels (and will again someday). It can play volleyball, and softball. It can take a spinning class, or Zumba, or Kickboxing. It can lift weights - heavy weights. My body has healed quickly from injuries and illness. It has provided the strength my heart required to do ever more - more than I thought it possibly could.
I love my body! I love the strength in my muscles. I love the delicacy of my hands. I love my height. I love my eyes. I love my hair - even the grey. I love my breasts, and the gently curved hourglass of my shape.
And I love my stretch marks. I love my c-section scar. I love the scars on my arms and my legs that are the badges of honor, the chronicle of my life. I love my thick waist and my big thighs and my flabby bottom. I even love my flappy "grandma" arms. I love my imperfections They are proof that my body is strong, that my body has been there for me, supported me, and loved me without questions since the moment we were born. My body has loved me even when I have treated it badly. When I have fueled it with junk. When I have not given it the movement it craves, or the sleep it needs.
My body has loved me the way my 3 yr old loves his bear. And I promise that from now on I will love it the same way.
