My Brother Ass

Yesterday while reading to my kids before naptime, I think my nose got broken.  Broken nose while reading?  Why not?  I live in a household full of spirited little people--the one in utero seems to be no different--it's snowed a ton and we can't go outside . . . there's a lot of pent up energy.

I started crying after it first happened, because it hurt, and also because I've always really liked my nose.  As a girl who has strong Eastern European peasant roots (I'm alotta Hungarian), I've come to accept that this body's good features aren't the traditional ones.  Good neck!  Good shoulders!  Good nose!

If you know me at all, you may realize that all of those places that I've traditionally considered "good" are now marred with ugly surgical scars (though interestingly, the scars in the picture don't look nearly as bad as I always imagine that they do).

With each new condition and surgery, I've been forced to reevaluate, take stock and move on with this body.  Thyroid cancer, arrhythmia + defibrillator, and now a broken nose (?) . . . what can I do but see past it and wear clothing that doesn't accentuate those glaring "disfigurements"?

When I was moving closer to adolescence, I can remember being horrified at the changes taking place to my body.  Suddenly my thighs and hips were huge--unnaturally enormous in my mind.  I wasn't overweight--though I've never been a little person--but my body did not line up at all with what was in Seventeen magazine.

I spent hours and hours and hours at the gym and pounding pavement trying to reshape what I had into what I wanted.  It didn't work.  I just made my build more muscular and trim, but there were the hips and thighs.  Can you imagine that I used to fret--no, obsess--over something this silly?

By the time the cancer came around, that obsession was waning, and with the scars of each surgery, the good Lord has blessed me with much more pressing concerns.  Like not dying.  Like taking care of all the little souls he has entrusted to me.  Each affliction helped me to put other, more important things above my unhappiness with these hips and thighs.

With those many graces and blessings, a lot of years and several babies later, I'm finally comfortable and even proud of this old body.  I'm heavier than I want to be, but that no longer matters to me.  I'm just thankful I can have some level of regular exercise, but more, that this body bears all that it needs to bear pretty well.  It's carried five babies now.  It lets me be as busy as I like to be.  It's a strong, good body:  hips, thighs and all.  And as for my nose?  I guess it can be a testament to withstanding the exuberance of the children this body allowed me.  It's definitely worth it.