As my stomach hastily grows (which happened in what seems out. of. nowhere!) I find myself often thinking of one of my biggest fears about being pregnant. It's not the fear of ripping myself a new asshole or shitting myself or failing and flailing at raising another human. NO! Oh no! Those worries are nothing in comparison to the "major" one. And as I prepare to type this, I realize how asinine and potentially self absorbed and ludricrous this may sound. But it's my fear nonetheless and I can't help but cringe at the thought of it. My biggest nightmare is stretchmarks. On my stomach.
I've had stretchmarks on my hips and thighs since I can remember. Probably since around the 8th grade when hips grew into my still skinny frame. My frame stayed very slender for many, many years but I've always had stretchmarks. I've always been self conscious about them. I realize that I am being over dramatic about them because most of them are faded and unless you're all up on my thigh you wouldn't notice them. At least I hope;) But I still can't help it--I don't wear short shorts & tremble at the thought of a bathing suit that does not entail board shorts. However, I've always revelled in the fact that I've had a taught stomach, sometimes ripped, sometimes not, but always decent looking. I've worn bikini tops with pride and have been known to show some midriff in my normal clothing as well.
Unfortunately, I fear as though post baby my stomach will look like Freddy Krueger came slashing his way mercilessly across my smooth skin. My midsection torn and frayed with bright red lines snaking their way across my pale skin. My pale skin that I will never again be able to show the light of day for fear of repulsion. NOT disgust from the wandering eyes of strangers, but from my own retinas. I realize that stretchmarks just happen and that no matter how much cream, body butter, lotion or oil I lather on myself that if my skin is predisposed to them (which it seems to be) that I will get them no matter my efforts to prevent. Some women claim them as somewhat of a badge of motherhood. An honor. Um...no thanks! I don't need stretchmarks strewn about my body to prove that I'm a mom. Maybe that excuse helps the stretchmark-proud-sporting-moms to sleep at night, but I'm afraid it's the one thing that wakes me from my slumber!