October 2011

Hey jellybeans,

A year ago now, back in the Before, I blogged into We Heart Life‘s I Heart My Body campaign, which officially goes live tomorrow. I thought I’d give you a heads up so you can join in if you’re brave.

It’s a simple, awesome concept. A celebration of all the bodies in the blogosphere- male and female; big and small; pink, tan, dark and pale; with all their beautiful marks, scars, lumps and bumps.

You can show as much or as little as you like. I’m OK with undies. Hell, at least this year they’re pretty matching ones, which is more than I can say for last time round. But it was that usual restless sadness as I took my own photos in the mirror, rather than having my husband to do it for me.

I’m not particularly body concious… even less so now than a year ago. I have more all round confidence, I think, more of a bite-me-I-don’t-care vibe happening, which extends to bikinis and short shorts. Because I’m proud of my body, and I no longer give a damn what anyone thinks. I’m pretty good nick for someone with two little kids, who does minimal exercise and eats crap. My body serves me well.

It’s nourished two children from conception to fourteen months old, giving and giving and still managing not to deplete itself too far. It’s given birth twice, once all by itself, pumping out oxytocin in a manner that still amazes me, forcing a high that I doubt any substance will ever match.

My body has takes piercings and tattoos without complaint. It rarely falls ill, and recovers quickly. My own stamina amazes me sometimes.

I know my own self, body included, at a much deeper level than I did a year ago. I pay more attention to what my body needs… water, sleep, nourishment, pleasure.

It’s a constant evolution I think, for women, the way we feel about our bodies. My body and I are reaching some kind of peaceful halfway point… It treats me well. I respect it, much as I can. And when I need to, it indulges me; allowing me to go without sleep, allowing me to drink too much or stuff myself with sugar, and it recovers with minimal complaint.

Having children, getting older, having to rely more on my own physical strength… all these things are adding up. According to Million Dollar Woman, if you’re a stay at home mum with small children, you lift a tonne a day. A tonne. No wonder we’re all so bloody exhausted all the time. Women’s bodies, they are amazing things, in so many different ways.

So… this is me. Lumpy bits, bumpy bits, pretty bits and all. My body’s not perfect, but I love it just the same… it treats me extraordinarily well.

“So we don’t have flat bellies anymore, but our strong arms can do the seamless transfer- from car seat to cot- without waking the baby. The breasts we once once covered in itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini tops are no longer male eye-magnets, but they’ve stopped a babies crying. Handsome men don’t scare us anymore. We are mothers, for God’s sake. We can wipe a bottom squeaky clean with the very last wipe, remove all traces of vomit from cashmere, and tell whether a child has a temperature just by feeling it’s forehead with the back of our hands. Don’t f*ck with us.” ‘

Secret Mother’s Business’ by Joanne Fedler.

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I think I’ll begin this post by saying- I’m not an idiot, I know that this is revealing my children’s names. After thinking long and hard about that…. I’m OK with it. Partly because their names have been used repeatedly in the print media, with my permission, and they are easy enough to find if someone is looking hard. I will continue to use their pseudonyms when I speak of them. Why? Not sure. It just feels right.

As I said, I’m OK with that. It’s a choice I’ve made, and not what I’m writing about today.

I love my new tattoo.

It’s been ten years since I suffered through getting Jiminy Cricket, my first tattoo. And I’m booked in for another one, on a day later this week. An early birthday present, a Shakespeare quote. I’ll tell you all about it soon enough.

But I think that will be enough ink for me another few years at least. I’m not sure why, I think that’s just the way it works… an itch has been scratched, and it will be a while before it irritates me enough to bother it again.

Tony was covered in tattoos- arms, back, chest. I’ve mentioned before the inscription he had done after we were married… “Ad infinito, in infinitum” From the beginning, to infinity without end.

The designs he had for our children, they looked like this…

And that’s what I have now, too.

He made me promise so many times I’d never have his name tattooed on me, he had seen that act of devotion go wickedly wrong, and so had I. I promised, and meant it, and kept it. The letter ‘T’, it feels even better, more of a secret, more real… it reminds me that he was mine.

I am too damn skinny and sometimes I see a flash of my tattoo, dark on pale skin, against the fraility of my arms and I picture Amy Winehouse in my head.

In the Before I never would have dreamed of getting a tattoo somewhere so visible, which is why I think I left it so long, to be sure I wanted it where it is.

And, as I said, I love it.

Catching that flicker of darkness, sometimes, it makes me feel marked, like some kind of permanent scarlet letter.

As bizarre as that sounds, there is certainly power in it, and I soak it up, drink it… being visually marked with this difference that has sat inside me, unseen, for so many months now. There’s power in that, in giving physical pain a marker that the whole world can see.

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