In Her Eyes

It's easy to find faults when I look in a mirror. It's easy to play comments about my body on repeat in my head from the days of "baby fat" and beyond. It's easy to see the changes of age and having created and birthed an entire new human.

It's easy, when I see my body, to find things to hate.

It is also easy to fear my daughter experiencing unwanted and unnecessary comments, to spend much of her life wondering if she is pretty enough, too ugly, too fat, too much, or not enough. I don't want her to hate her body, or to want to eat but fear the calories, or to ultimately hate herself for not living up to the standards of others.

But for now, she doesn't.

For now, she thinks I'm perfect.

In her eyes, I am Mommy and I see a love so full it overwhelms me. In her eyes, there is no battle between my body and "good personality" — there is only one me. A unification I never felt until through her eyes.

Mommy's body can lift her up high.

It can carry her.

It can laugh.

It can make silly faces.

It can even dance.

Mommy's body can play.

It can kiss boo-boos.

It can give hugs, comfort, and love.

It can tuck her in, say "night-night", and read one more book — the last one, for real this time.

Mommy's body can take her hand and follow her.

Or lead her on adventures.

It can protect her and keep her safe.

To her, Mommy's body is perfect because it is Mommy's and it can do anything.

I want to see myself the way she does. I want to feel good enough and embrace my body as it is. It's been difficult.

But every time I feel the love in her eyes and her hugs, it gets a little easier.

Just a little bit.

Day by day, I learn through her eyes the things I can do that are worth a laugh or a marvel. Every day, she makes me feel enough. Even on the bad days when all I can give is a cuddle or deep breaths. Even on days it's the fastest food on the table and quiet time with a movie.

I am Mommy, and I am enough.