Last night I changed my baby’s diaper and kissed her belly, which I’ve done a thousand times. But last night it caused a random thought which has naturally been bouncing around in my head for nearly 24 hours, begging to be written about.
The international symbol for motherhood should undoubtedly be a belly.
A belly, because of the silly and ridiculous acts we will do to hear a belly laugh.
A belly, because of all the hours we spend patting and rubbing cocoa butter into our growing pregnant bellies.
A belly, because of all the time we spend tickling tiny bellies.
A belly, because of all the times we get up at 3am to change sheets and give a shower and rub a sick belly.
A belly, because some days it feels like we do nothing but change diapers and fill up tiny bellies with snack after snack.
A belly, because it’s so hard not to bend over and kiss a belly that’s exposed while they roll all over the living room carpet.
A belly, because who hasn’t admired the precious belly-first waddle of a baby first learning to walk?
A belly, because this is where it all comes together in a brilliant, beautiful circle. Because I look at my own belly and see the scar where I was once attached to the inside of my own mother’s belly, surrounded by the stretch marks I earned by growing children of my own.
A belly, because that’s the only thing in the world that shows both my physical start of life and the start of my life as I know it.