Motherhood vs. Self-care
Write your body a love letter.
How my Sunday started:
Rafa using my bed as a trampoline and landing nose-first on Dada’s knee. Cue blood everywhere, including my poorly chosen WHITE Egyptian cotton sheets, while we tried to work out if his nose was broken.
I made it to my 8am yoga, but guess what? I was covered in blood splatters. Even inside my ear. I looked like an extra in a Scandi noir drama.
Oh well. I might not look like the millennials in their chic co-ord gym sets and “up-the-bum” leggings (is that what they’re called?), but I made it to the mat. That’s something.
Fast forward to the evening: after bike rides, bouncy castles and an over-sugared party, I finally got everyone in bed. Walked the dog then ran a bath. I even found a packet of rose bath salts from a “mum-to-be” gift pack I never opened (only two years late…). I even squeezed out the dregs of a face mask.
Rose petals floating. Steam rising. Spa Treatment playlist on Spotify. Perfect vibes.
I’m just about to get in, when I hear: “Mama I’ve done a poo”. Was Rafa bluffing? Could I risk it? No sooner did I concede and put Rafa on the potty than Jerry wanted to join the poo party.
That sweet floral aroma was replaced by something more animal.
When I finally got the boys to bed (the second time) and got into the bath, I read a chapter of my book in which a woman about my age slips into the bath and looks critically at her middle-aged body.
And so, I looked at mine.
The C-section scar. The skin that never “pinged back.” And instead of criticising, I thought about what it’s been through. Miscarriages. Pregnancies. Surgery. Birth. Raising triplets.
The female body is f***ing awesome.
I got out and wrote my body a love letter. And I want you to do the same.
Dear Body,
I’m sorry it has taken me so long to see how mighty and amazing you are.
When I was a teenager, in the midst of “thin culture,” I couldn’t appreciate anything other than waist size. I also realised what a liability being a pretty, young girl in a big city is. I learned not to attract attention.
When I was in my twenties, I’d remember and repeat things other people had said about you, good or bad. Especially boys. I was easily swayed because I didn’t really have my own opinion.
In my thirties, I’m ashamed to say I blamed you. I thought that you had let me down the one time I needed you. I couldn’t understand how you could run ultramarathons but not get a baby past the first trimester. I’m sorry.
In my forties, I finally got it. I owned it. I claimed it. I knew your true power and was done playing it down. I looked after you. I got trolled for going to the gym. But I don’t regret a single workout. You are worth it.
Ironically, now I’m 42, you’re the strongest you’ve ever been. I will never fail to be astonished by the fact you grew three humans.
You are truly awesome.
Now it’s your turn to write your body a love letter.
Let’s unhook from all the BS the magazines, society and social media have told us about what a body should look like and take a moment to acknowledge yours.
Think of:
one thing you want to apologise for doing/saying/thinking
one thing you’re grateful for.
As I write this my mum and my aunty are both awaiting diagnoses. A healthy body is a beautiful thing.
Much love,
Leila and the triplets x