This is my new Facebook profile picture. I took it today, ignoring the mountains of laundry and dishes that need doing. I can do those any time. Cute wisps of hair only fall on one's face every so often, and prompt picture taking must immediately follow.

I don't love this picture. It's alright, but I had to change some lighting so the grey roots wouldn't show, and my lips would look like I actually applied some tint, and my hair would be the deeper red I love after I visit to the salon. Colour saturation levels can do wonders.

I got an email from a friend who saw the picture, and we started talking about how cruel women are to themselves, especially after our bodies get stretched and changed dramatically from having a child or three. We look at the young childless women with envy, admiring their curves and small waistlines and a complexion one can only achieve with regular sleep. We talk about how much thinner we used to be, how our breasts were perkier, our tummies flatter, our butts less jiggly. We discuss diets and gym memberships and how we would hate Miss So-and-so, that scrawny little bitch, if she wasn't so damn nice all the time. But have you ever seen her eat a carb? I don't think I have. Wait, maybe a mini-muffin at playgroup, but then she went to the bathroom right away. Hmm...

We're awful to our womanly selves. We hold ourselves up to standards that are unreasonable biologically, physically and emotionally. We can't possibly do what we do in any given day and constantly work on achieving Hollywood's ideal. Can we be healthy? Should we be healthy? Absolutely. But 'healthy' does not always mean rake thin, nor does it mean working out three hours a day at the gym, or eating nothing but spinach and almond salad (but if you throw some cranberries in there and top it with a vinaigrette it's rather lovely. But not all the time. Balance, people. Balance. Did you not read yesterday's post?)

I used to really hate my body. I hated every roll, every dimple, every blemish and every stretch mark. I wouldn't have sex with a single light on and I would go awkwardly stiff if he put a hand on my naked belly. I would change outfits six times until I found one that hid my middle like a tent, attempting to somehow conceal the not-so-subtle fact that I'm overweight.

I cried about it. I worked out so hard I would exhaust myself. I went on this diet and that diet and binged and cried about that and then tried a new diet and a new exercise program and berated myself for putting weight back on...

And one day I had enough. I just

Fucking.

Had.

Enough.

And I said it to myself just like that. I said "I have fucking had enough of hating myself."And I promised myself I wouldn't do it anymore. There had to be a better way to live. There had to be something more to live than wasting it away agonizing over how disappointed I was in my appearance.

It was like a light switch came on. Instead of staring at the disgusting blob I thought motherhood had turned me into, I was suddenly able to look deeper; I saw that, while I had been blatantly transformed by childbearing, my perspective had been completely wrong. Society's perspective was wrong. How could I not have seen it before?

And just like that, I realized how beautiful I had become.

I saw that my body had grown three children, and my belly had stretched to accommodate them. My incredible body had done an incredible thing.

I saw that three babies had been born from my body, and that my belly had two surgical lines which, like tattoos, immortalized their arrivals. (Incidentally, I would not recommend a cesarean just so you can have a cool pink tattoo like me. I know you want to be like me, and that's perfectly understandable, but it is major surgery. I would have gladly welcomed all three out my hooha and paid actual cash for a belly tattoo. Less pain, fewer complications, no staples. You know?)

I saw that my breasts had changed in order to feed my babies, and that they had done a great job. They made milk for a combined total of seven years, and I'm very proud of that.

My curves, my laugh lines, the wisdom that comes with grey hair: Those are all badges of honour that I can wear proudly.

...Alright, except the grey hair. I love it on other people, but I'm not quite loving it on me just yet. I'm thirty-three; can't I rock the red a little longer?

Do I still look at the pretty little things with a sense of nostalgia? Only a little. They may have something I no longer have, but I have something they can't possibly imagine: sixteen years with the man of my dreams and three incredible children who show me a love I wouldn't trade for all the cellulite-free thighs in the world.

I want to hug any mother who doesn't like the way she looks. I want to tell her not to starve herself, or work herself to the bone, or listen to her husband's disparaging comments about how she doesn't look like the woman he married. I want to throw out her fat-free, aspartame-injected yogurt and buy her some whole, healthy food that tastes good and brings a smile to her face. I want to bring her into a field with a bat and trash her scale - Office Space style - and have her take up exercise she loves instead of the one that burns the most calories.

I want to tell her what I've realized, being all wise like I am: That true beauty is within her, real and living, right now. She doesn't have to create it because it's already there. It's been there all along, but it's morphed into something so much better than it used to be. I think it's what makes a mother more stunning as the years go by. Time spreads her beauty outward to create a family, and inward to beautify her soul.

Love yourself right now for you who are and what you do. And while you're at it, love me. Especially me, but at least 40% you. And then we can celebrate! You can buy me a coffee. I'm a cheap therapist.