A few days ago, I was chatting with our taxi driver friend while we traversed the crowded streets of Kampala, about the amazing way you work behind the scenes to keep us alive and well and we hardly notice unless something goes wrong. Even at night, while we rest, you are hard at work and I so appreciate you!
You were busy from the very beginning as nurses and doctors whisked us away to perform emergency surgery on our tiny hours old body. I am so proud of you for pulling us through that!
I quite like you! We’ve been through a lot. I haven’t always loved you though. Remember how much we loved to dance and all the competitions we were part of and the medals we would win? The joy it was to feel so free in the movement? Remember how I began to compare you to the other girls’ slender bodies, while I carried around that extra baby weight? I am so sorry I quit dancing because I thought you were too chubby. You could have been a splendid dancer, maybe we could have made a career out of it. I’m glad you haven’t held it against me and we still dance, A LOT! I love you for that!
I am awed by how you cradled life within me for nine months. Watching how we shifted, grew, prepared to bring life into the world, was precious. I gingerly touch the c-section scar, now a year old, and I don’t blame you. I thank you. Thank you, for saving my life then and for saving hers now.
I see who you really are now: Magical.
I love the fleshy soft stomach; a reminder of how we carried life within us. I love the strong, stocky Norwegian legs which the South African women so greatly admired. I love the hazel eyes with the stars in them and the way the older I get, the more I see my mother in us.
Body, I hope I continue to give you the admiration you deserve, to keep dancing no matter how much of us wiggles and I promise to teach my daughter, to love her body too.