I Smile at My C-Section Scar

It spans across my lower belly: a thin line of translucent white, fringed with red, curving slightly upward on either end. It stretches and contracts with the gentle rise and fall of my breathing, widening like a smile.

And I can’t help smiling back.

Because when I look at this scar, I don’t see a flaw.

I see perfection. I see a portal to another world: a place filled with love, life, security—a nourishing utopia, where you formed your perfect little nose, your perfect little cheeks, the perfect little wrinkle between your eyebrows, all ten perfect little fingers, and all ten perfect little toes.

I don’t see deformity.

I see beauty. I see a tattoo that extends all the way to my heart and connects it to yours. I see your soul, your vibrancy, your life—carved into me.

I don’t see the mark of someone who had it “easy,” someone who “didn’t really give birth.” I don’t see inferiority.

I see a literal birthmark. I see the spot where they slit me open while I cried and prayed, hoping that I would hold your tiny living body in my arms when it was over, yearning to feel the warm touch of your skin against mine and the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat against my chest, sensations that I’d grown to know so well internally. I see the mark of quintessential motherhood.

I don’t see weakness.

I see strength. I see the jagged edge of love and fear, protruding from my skin like braille. It says life. It says perseverance. It says you and me—we’ll be together at the end of all this—whatever it takes.

I don’t see failure.

I see triumph. I see a battle scar, marking the ground where we fought—together—when you decided to come 10 weeks early. I see will and determination. I see victory.

I don’t see the cold cut of surgery.

I see the tender swell of life. I see a landmark, a historic site where you breathed your first breath, cried your first cry, opened your eyes to the outside world for the first time. I see the precise latitudinal line of where you went from simply living to being alive. I am forever marked by your coordinates.

I don’t see regret, or the disappointment of having a nontraditional birth. I don’t feel disconnect.

I see a property line, extending to my heart, where you first staked a claim, and where you continue to rule today. I feel the memory of the gentle tug as they lifted you from my body—your grasp on my heart never wavering— and the familiar pull on my heartstrings whenever I picture your fragile, red little body rising to meet me. I remember the warmth of your cheek against my lips, and I feel the unique, undeniable magnetism of a mother’s love. I feel connection.

I don’t see detachment.

I see intimacy. I see a doorway, housing the first chapter of your life, locking in the memory of every kick, every hiccup, every flutter of your tiny, miraculous heart. I see devotion. I see it etched in my skin like a signature on a contract, a promise of love and responsibility. A promise of motherhood.

So I will not be ashamed. I will not be made to feel inadequate. I will not feel insecure or embarrassed.

I will not drape a towel or wrap over my bikini line at the beach. I will not turn away from the mirror when I step out of the shower. I will not cover the mended flesh that brought so much beauty into this world.

I will not mask my pride.

I will not be told that I “had it easy,” or that I “didn’t do any of the work.”

I will not feel weak. I will not feel like less of a woman. I will not feel like less of a mother.

I will not allow the loose, slightly puckered skin surrounding this scar to make me feel ugly. Because it is beautiful, and I am beautiful, and you are beautiful.

I will not feel marred, or “butchered,” or broken.

Because I am whole, and it is this scar that has made me so. It is a poignant paradox, a line marking the spot where I was both ripped apart and put back together; and when I look at it, I will remember the day when you were both taken from and given to me.

And I will be grateful.

Because this scar made me a mom.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first appeared on Mamalode

To the Mom in the NICU: You Are Enough

To the brand new mother in the NICU, the one who refuses to leave her premature baby’s side:

I have sat where you sit. I have feared the things you fear. I have felt the pain you feel.

I have held my own three-pound miracle, and marveled at the soft blond hair covering his body, as if his guardian angel’s wings had shed downy golden feathers on him, keeping him warm. Keeping him safe.

And I have asked myself, Why couldn’t I keep him safe?

Why wasn’t my body the loving, nurturing environment he needed?

Why wasn’t I enough?

I know the guilt. I know that you feel like you’ve failed him in this harsh world, a world he’s not even supposed to have entered yet.

You should have done more. Should have given more. Should have been more.

But let me tell you something: There is nothing more than love.

Nothing more you can do for him than love. Nothing more you can give to him than love. Nothing more you can be for him than love.

He knows your love, and that is more than enough.

He feels it.

He feels it in the way you cradle his fragile body close to your chest, and in the warmth of your skin enveloping him like the quintessential security blanket. He feels it in your heart, pressed against his, beating out a private “I love you” in an intimate Morse code that only the two of you understand.

He feels it in the tip of your finger, the only part of your hand that fits inside his precious, wrinkled fist. He feels more love in that one finger than some children feel in a lifetime.

He feels it in the soft trembling of your body as it quivers with silent shakes of wonder, hope, and gratitude.

He smells it.

He smells it in the faint staleness of unwashed hair, unbrushed teeth, and unlaundered clothing, byproducts of your refusal to part with him any longer than absolutely necessary.

He smells it in the soured breastmilk crusted on the front of your shirt, and in the pungent odor of cafeteria food that's seeped into your skin.

He smells it in the Purell you rub into your hands every time you hope to touch him, and in the iodine residue that has permanently settled into the cracks of your knuckles, a souvenir from the scrub room you frequent on a daily basis.

He hears it.

He hears it in the hushed voice that reads to him while he lies in his incubator, and in the songs that are whispered softly into his ear as you cradle him in your arms. He hears Christmas carols, because you don’t know any lullabies yet.

He hears it in the gentle creak of the rocking chair, and in the muffled sound your lips make as they trace the path between his cheek and the crown of his head, marveling in the softness they find there.

He hears it over the whirring of the CPAP machine, when you whisper to him so that no one else can hear, reminding him—begging him—to keep breathing.

He hears it in the rhythmic snores and deep breaths of your slumber—when exhaustion finally gets the best of you—and in the waking silences you spend in meditation and prayer.

He tastes it.

He tastes it on your skin, as you trace the cupid’s bow of his upper lip with your little finger, and in the waxy layer of Vaseline you apply so tenderly to the cracked, flaky skin you find there.

He tastes it in the plastic coating of the tiny tube that transports your breastmilk to his underdeveloped belly, and in the traces of day-old coffee when you gingerly touch your lips to his.

He tastes it in the salty tears that spill from your eyes and land on the delicate red skin of his cheeks, anointing him with a mother’s everlasting devotion.

He sees it.

He sees it in the lines carving themselves into your face, spanning like map routes, recounting the journey of how you came to be here—together—in this moment, but showing no indication of where you’re going. They point towards uncharted territory that you’ll discover together.

He sees it in the disappointed way you bite your lip when the nurse tells you it’s “not a good day” to remove him from his incubator, and in the way your hands instinctively press against your chest, reflecting your desire to hold him there.

He sees it in the dark circles that hang from your eyes like weights, willing them to close, and in the determination in the pupils that peek out, forcing them to remain open. He sees it in your stubbornness, your fear to miss even a single moment of the beautiful life you created.

He sees it in the way you see him, as if there is nothing else you can—or will ever need to—see.

You brought him into this world, and he became yours. You love him. He knows.

And you are enough.

*

And to my own NICU warriors:

From our first week in the NICU together...

 

...to our last... 

..and every day since...

 

...you've had my heart.

I hope I've earned yours.