The skin, it is elastic

I think I have the beginnings of a stretch mark on my belly.

Actually, scratch that. I HAVE the beginnings of a stretch mark on my belly.

Stretch marks aren't so bad. It's been some time, as in NEVER, since I bared my stomach in a revealing bathing suit in public, so there's not much chance of anyone but my husband ever seeing them.

I've had stretch marks before. I discovered them coincidentally the same summer I discovered what a great meal snack Reese's cups and Mt Dew made.

Where was I? Oh yes, stretch marks.

I think they are fabulous. Fabulous guilt-inducing tools for when I used to argue with my mother and ask her what right did she have to boss me around on [insert teenage smart alec issue here] - she'd casually remark that she brought me into this world, she can take me out, and she had the STRETCH MARKS and C-section scars to prove it. It usually stopped most arguments once I realized I would never grow to adulthood and exercise my own rights if I didn't learn to keep my mouth shut.

So I'm loving my new curves, and my new stretch marks. The trademarks of womanhood, motherhood, and future argumentative evidence.

Because I said so.