Twenty years ago, I obsessed over my appearance. I was never thin enough. My thighs were too big. My toes were too long. I was shaped like a pear. No, wait. A peach. Now that I’m forty with five kids under my belt, I’ve learned to embrace the imperfections. I accept the pregnancy road rash and consider the newly sagging skin a rite of passage. By most standards, I have entered mid-life. And I’m okay with that. It also doesn’t hurt that I am married to someone who loves me for who I am–blemishes and all.
ME: Can you stop grabbing me there?
PONTILICIOUS: Why? Why can’t I grab you there?
ME: That’s my mom pouch. I really don’t want you grabbing my mom pouch. It sags and needs to be backfilled with dirt. Or bacon grease. So please don’t grab my mom pouch.
PONTILICIOUS: But I love your mom pouch!
ME: Why would you love my mom pouch?
PONTILICIOUS: Because I know that I contributed to it.
And that, my friends, is a man you hang on to–for the rest of time.
