ENLIGHTENMENT, IF BUT FOR A MOMENT.

One of the things I absolutely love lately is having quiet bath time with my baby. It seems to be a wonderful time for us to talk. About everything from princesses (she enjoys their sparkles) to potato chips (she likes the salty crunch). About things that are important to her. We wiggle and giggle, and splash, and make bubble hair. It's what I picture heaven might be.

I know I won't always be able to have quiet bath time with her. I know one day she will grow, and the tub, unfortunately won't. I know one day she won't want to share every little detail of her existence with me. I know one day she won't think I'm that great. I know. Cause I've been there.

But today as we played, she noticed, for the first time, some things about her mommy that weren't exactly perfect. She noticed my scar on my chin, my thumb, and my upper thigh. She noticed my stretch marks and asked what they were. She poked the extra flesh of my belly, and asked about my owie there. In her most innocent way, she asked why her mommy wasn't quite perfect. And just exactly what these imperfections were, and how I'd gotten them.

And as I sat there and wondered exactly what was the best way to explain all my owies, I couldn't help but realize how completely perfect my daughter was. Not a single scratch. No scars to speak of. Just perfect, baby soft, smooth skin. And at first, I felt complete sadness. Sadness at the scars, and scratches and trips to the hospital that were SURE to come. I mourned her perfect little body. In that moment I wished, wished, with all my heart that she might always stay this precious and pure.

But then I thought of my scars, my wounds, and the lessons that were in a way, forever seared to my body. In that I suppose I might never forget. My chin and my thumb hold the lesson of safety. About the importance of paying attention, and not getting lost in my imagination. Which is easy to do. My thigh holds the lesson of not taking the easy way out. There is never an easy way out. My stretch marks remind me of a time in my life when I was struggling just to stay above water. And that I don't have to abuse my body to cope. And that extra flesh around my middle, that for so long held my shame, now, I see as a badge of honor. Like my cesarean section scar, that is an outward reminder of the pain, and joy that being a mother brings. The sacrifice. The self-less-ness. The love.

All these scars are a part of me, that I suppose as I get older, are beginning to mean more to me, than perfection. My wrinkles at my cheeks are from years of laughter, and my lines in my forehead, from summers spent in the sun.

The idea of getting old is becoming less and less something I fear, and more and more, something I'm learning to embrace. What does that mean, anyway? Old? I'm old to some. And young to others. But one thing is for certain.

By the end of our tub time this morning I had decided that life isn't all joy. Nor, would I ever want it to be. With it comes loads and loads of pain. Some physical, some emotional. Some barely even tolerable. But, every painful scar has made me a better person, taught me something about myself. In essence, made me who I am today. And you want to know what? I kinda like who I am. Sure, I have loads and loads to learn, and am anything but perfect, but for today, and probably just for today, I'm okay with where I'm at. The number on the scale. The number in my skirts. It just is. It's not who I am.

I ache for the pain both physical and emotional that inevitably will find my daughter. I pray for a cushion that might cradle her falls. I hope that her heartaches might be few. I crave for her to learn the tough lessons in life. To earn her scars. To grow and become the woman I know she is completely capable of being.

But mostly of all, I wish for her to one day be able to have a moment of enlightenment in a tub full of bubbles, where she too, can realize that experiencing pain in this life can lead to happiness and joy.