No Literal Bursting, Please

It's official: I have stretch marks.

Well, technically I've had stretch marks since I was in high school. It's the blemish that women hate talking about (and having), because not only are they unsightly, they feel weird, and, despite what makers of creams and weird skin lasers would like to have you believe, they are permanent. It's my damned soft and sensitive skin that does it, I think. My mother managed to have three kids sans stretch marks, but her skin is much more rough and tough than mine. I suppose I should count myself lucky that it's only a few.

The first three I named. Huey, Dewey, and Louie appeared on my left hip about a month ago. Then Sonny and Cher made their debut shortly after on my right. Those I could handle; they're out of the way, no big deal. But almost over night, I now have new ones on my belly. Blech.

If I take a step back from the "Blah" factor, I have to admit that watching stretch marks progress is really interesting. The ones I have from before kind of appeared out of no where, I have no real recollection of them ever being anything other than thin white lightning bolts etched into my skin. I've been able to see get wider and longer, particularly the ones on my hips. It's quite literally my flesh tearing because it can't stretch as fast as it needs to. When you think of it that way, it seems like it should hurt, which it doesn't. But it does itch like hell.

Kinda feels like I've been inducted into some sort of strange mom club now. My battle wounds have begun. The kicking of my ribs, the swollen feet, the heartburn, and the decreased lung capacity will all go away come baby-time. But the stretch marks will remain.

Well, and them and the baby.