And I Didn't Shave My Legs...

(This post was originally written in March of 2015.)

And I Didn't Shave My Legs...
Today was my first trip back to my OB-GYN since I gave birth to my third Little. The weather is an impressive low seventies and even our March baby had on short sleeves.

I wore a dress. A sun dress.
White and red stripes.
Very simple.
Feminine.

Last night a friend of mine posted an image on Facebook.
A stupid image.
One that made her feel indignant.
The picture was someone's false idea of superiority. A woman is "more woman" when she gives birth vaginally as opposed to she who gives birth via cesarean section. It was this which made my friend, who has had two c-sections, feel belittled.
Really, it just came down to some complete stranger making less of my friend's spirits than her own.

In protest, this morning I showered but did not shave my legs.
It's been a week.
At the time, it made perfect sense to me.

The fact that someone, a complete stranger, can attempt to ruin the way I feel about myself. The way I think about myself. I would not even entertain the image; the comment.
I like me. I have made the choice to like me, regardless of what others think about me.
Regardless of their one-sided opinions which can put me on the defense.

My friend took the bait. She was hurt, offended.

Today I had my appointment and I had my wound inspected. This is the wound from my third c-section. It extends the length of my waist- about seven inches long.

Today I did not shave my legs.
Although I knew that the office midwife would be able to tell.
Although I chose to wear a little sundress.
Although I am finally feeling well-enough in my midsection to bend-over and shave.
And guess what? I felt feminine.
Beautiful.
Me. With my red and white striped sundress.
And my baby boy.
My favorite accessory. 

 

Baby Thatcher

Big Strong Man didn't notice, and I am not offended. I would not expect him to inspect my legs.
I know what he would say, though. He would laugh at me and call me a hippie.
Tell me I inherited that trait from my hippie dad who still listens to Pink Floyd like he did when he was a teenager and actual hippie.
He would then tell me that he doesn't care, I can be a hippie if I want, just so long as I am not a feminist.
I am not a feminist.
He would tell me that confidence is attractive, and that hairy legs are okay with him.

So I have him, and his forgiving love of me; hairy legs and all.
I have my three Littles, the reasons behind my beautiful scar- the one I wear with pride.
The scar no stupid Facebook image can try to take away from me. 
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