Next time I look in the mirror and judge what I see, I will remember these words.
My son doesn’t care that my arms are a bit wobbly. He only cares that they cuddle him when he is sad.
My son doesn’t care that my stomach is squishy. He loves to blow raspberries on it each morning, and squishy makes a better sound.
My son doesn’t care that my hair is constantly messy. It is only messy because we spent the last hour running around the park.
My son doesn’t care that my legs are a bit short and are not perfectly sculpted. He loves to climb them, and bury his face in my thigh when he is feeling shy.
My son doesn’t care that my nose is a bit weird. He loves when I make a goose noise when he honks it.
My son doesn’t care that my hands haven’t seen a manicure for a while. To him, they are capable hands that prepare him food, stroke his face and propel him squealing into the air.
My son doesn’t care that the only makeup I wear these days is sunscreen. He loves my face as it is familiar, safe and dear to him.
My son doesn’t care that my clothes are a bit daggy and simple. They are play clothes, perfect to take him on adventures.
My son doesn’t care that my boobs are no longer perky. To him they provide a stream of comfort and nourishment.
My son doesn’t care that I have stretch marks and varicose veins. He doesn’t even notice them. He only notices that I am always there when he needs me.
My son doesn’t care about any of my physical imperfections. He loves me just as I am because I am his mummy. This body is the one that created him and the one that holds him close each day. My body is amazing.
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