Stretch marks.

The other day, I took my kids to the pool and met up with some other mom friends of mine. As usual, I wore my knee-length board shorts over a one-piece suit. I was pleasantly surprised to see my friends rockin' their swimsuits fiercely, not covering up their legs and hips. Then I got a little jealous -- why can't I have the confidence to swim without board shorts or wear a two-piece? One little thing is holding me back: my stretch marks.

I vividly remember the day they first appeared. I was about five months pregnant with Bubby, getting ready to hop into the shower. I looked down and saw some red stripes on my inner thighs. I thought maybe it was a rash or something. But I looked closer and noticed this rash was actually a collection of deep, red stripes cutting across my skin like fault lines. It dawned on me then that it was not a rash at all; I had received my first set of stretch marks, the first permanent indication that I was a mother.

My stomach sank at this realization, but I immediately found a silver lining: I have never been comfortable showing my thighs anyway, so my stretch marks would remain a secret to everyone besides Dill. Take that, stretch mark fairies!

But within the coming weeks, I got more. The existing ones on my thighs spider-webbed down my legs, almost to my knees. I got a bunch of deep, red angry ones on my hips. They appeared on my buttocks. And then, my breasts (I actually cried about those). The days of perfect skin and a perfect body were gone.

(And to think I ever complained about a few dimples on my butt. Ha!)

After Bubby came, the stretch marks haunted me. I couldn't bear to look at them, even touch them. I felt ruined. It didn't matter how many times Dill told me they didn't bother him in the slightest -- I didn't believe him. All I saw was ugliness.

In case you're wondering, they looked like this:

I took this picture a few months after Bubby's birth because I wanted to prove that my stretch marks would never fade. I planned to take another picture a year later and show everyone that MY stretch marks were an especially horrid breed that would remain red and furious forever. For some reason, I stored this picture in the My Pictures folder on my computer even though my screensaver was set to a randomized slideshow of said pictures. I blame sleep-deprived early motherhood for that act of idiocy.

One evening while living in Provo, we had Dill's cousin David over for dinner. He was also attending BYU at the time and we invited him over often. We were all sitting around chatting after our meal when THAT PICTURE (up there) appeared on the computer screen as part of the slideshow screensaver. When David saw it, his jaw dropped and he turned and said, "What HAPPENED to you?" I could only guess what he was thinking: mauled by an African cat? I'm sure I turned red from embarrassment -- I didn't mean for that picture to be seen by ANYONE. I consider David a close relative, just not THAT close. But the damage was done, the corneas already seared.

With a lump in my throat, I quietly explained, "Those are stretch marks. That's what happens when you have a baby." He accepted that answer without further prodding. The lump went away and the conversation turned to lighter topics. I don't think he knew about stretch marks prior to seeing my picture. Either way, he definitely got an education that evening.

Since then, my stretch marks have faded into silver scars and also shrunk a lot with weight loss. I didn't earn any new ones with Smush -- that's right, I said earn. My feelings on the matter have changed.

Before David saw that picture, I loathed my stretch marks. I thought they were abhorrent, a nasty secret no one should ever know about. But for some reason, having my secret (which really wasn't such a bad secret) exposed to someone else helped me realize they just weren't a big deal. Most mothers have stretch marks -- the ones who don't are among very few. These marks aren't bad -- yes, from a medical perspective, they are an actual scar on the skin, evidence the skin had been stretched beyond its elasticity. But who doesn't have scars? We all do. Our scars tell our scariest and most interesting stories. They are proof that we survived something.

I think of Stephanie Nielson, the famous blogger from Nie Nie Dialogues who survived a fiery plane crash back in 2008. If you don't read her blog, you ought to start now. This woman knows more about scars than anyone. I see the pain SHE has endured and feel awful that I ever let my measly stretch marks bother me. She is proof that true beauty has nothing to do with how perfect your skin is. What an amazing woman to look up to, a woman who doesn't let her scars get her down.

My stretch marks have begun to migrate to the back of my mind. They don't torment me like they used to. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of them and remember being pregnant, remember those long nine months that ended with the most wonderful gift. Those marks are a small souvenir of my pregnancy journey, and I know more than my fair share of women who'd give anything to acquire those particular scars.

I haven't yet come to a point where I consider them beautiful. But, I do see them as a physical reminder of my greater purpose in life, and that's cool.

And I'm starting to embrace them. Last night, I got up the courage to swim in short board shorts instead of my knee-length ones. A small victory.

Someday, I hope to wear life's badges of honor proudly. My stretch marks, non-existent boobs, C-section scar and sagging, loose skin? They're not ugly; they're just proof of a fact -- I gave two people life.

No shame in that.