"I look just like you!"

Growing up I had a lot of body image issues. Like, a lot.

I never felt pretty. I always felt fat.

Which is sad.

Because I'm not modest enough to sit here now and say that I was ugly or fat. I was pretty. I am pretty. I've never been "fat" in my life.

But I was made to feel like that.

It wasn't by any one person or magazine cover. It was a conglomeration of the people in my life and the media that I witnessed every. single. day.

You're only beautiful if you're face is gaunt, your arms and legs are twigs, your tummy perfectly flat. Heck, even having muscles wasn't pretty.

More than one person, included those I was related to, flat out told me I was fat on a regular basis, or at least insinuated it.

By the time I'd reached the age of 18 I'd been on every single fad diet out there, starting at the age of 11. I'd cry if an 11-year-old H ever cared about a "diet" in the sense of trying to lose weight.

Everyone warned me that after I had H my body would be worse. It'd be stretched out and disproportionate. Clothes would never fit the same. I'd probably hate it even more.

Funny thing was, before I got pregnant with H I didn't hate my body. And I was at the heaviest I'd ever been in my life weighing in at a whopping 145lbs. I'd graduated high school at 120lbs. So I'd never been "tiny" anyway.

And yet it's funny that at 145lbs I was finally, for the first time, very comfortable in my skin. I was soft and fluffy. I was far from what Shape said was sexy. Maxim and Cosmo would have never allowed me to be on the cover of their magazines without some serious photo shop.

And yet I was okay.

For so many reasons.

Because I was surrounded by people who never commented on my weight. By people who truly thought I was beautiful. Because I was eating whatever and whenever I wanted and not upholding to a "diet."

And because J loved me regardless, so long as I was happy.

I was so prepared to hate my body though, after H was born. Because everyone told me I would.

But I didn't.

I loved all those red, and eventually white stretch marks that not only riddled my stomach, but also my sides and thighs. Each one was a reminder of the beautiful baby I'd carried in my womb.

I didn't care that I didn't have an awesomely elastic body. I didn't lament that I got more stretch marks from one 7.5lb baby than many women get after having carried five babies. It just didn't matter.

I was so in awe of what my body was capable of. Growing a human being. Going through labor and birth without aide from any medicine or other artificial "help". I loved that my body could nourish my child. That it could feed my baby while growing another, and then feed them both! I didn't have time to care about it's size.

After I had B I got down to my lowest weight since being with J. 123lbs. That was mostly due to a very strict Paleo diet, which I did give up after B was over a year (but still loosely follow, but now I eat my raw cheese and ice cream and occasional other "band" foods).

I will admit, that after I had B, and only when I got down to that extremely low weight (for me) I started to slightly obsess about my body image. Again. It was like all those thoughts and words from being a kid suddenly came back and I was afraid I wasn't "enough." I didn't wear cute and trendy clothes. Hell, I was happy just if they mostly fit. I never wore make-up or did anything to my hair. Seriously, I didn't even shower every day.

And it's funny how that works. At my "best" according to media and society's standards, internally, I've always felt my worst.

Obviously I surpassed that and said, "screw the world" because I'm good at that. I ate a cheeseburger and moved on.

And I loved my body anyway. Even as the pounds crept on slowly but surely. Especially when H (mostly) weaned and seemingly overnight I went from 126lbs to 133lbs.

Someone told me not long ago that I was getting "beefy." All I could do was smiled and say, "Thanks! That's the look I'm going for."

Because I am. I have some pretty great muscles going on right now. I just got a hula hoop, so despite my terribly bruised hip bones (who knew a hula hoop could do that !?), I'm fixing my diasis recti (that's where you abdominal muscles are greatly split. In mine, I can stick my whole hand in between them. Totally cool and creepy at the same time). I work out when I have time or want to make the time. I eat my weight in ice cream.

Most days I don't feel gorgeous. Pretty, sure, but not gorgeous. But I'm happy. And I'm "enough." I love my body.

Today I threw my hair up in a messy bun before heading out for a long morning at the park with my sweet H and B.

H looked at me as said, "I want my hair just like yours."

I rarely put her hair up because I love the curls. I love her gorgeous brown hair. But I obliged her and swooped those curls up into a messy bun.

I held her in front of the mirror afterwards and she said to me, "I look just like you!"

I smiled and said, "You do indeed!"

Then H took her hands and placed one on each of my cheeks. "You're just so beautiful!"

And pretty much simultaneously B was right below me going, "Tummy!" as he squished my belly with his hands, one of his favorite things to do.

And I know I'm doing it right. I know that, as long as I'm living anyway, my kids won't have a distorted view of body image and what is beautiful.

They'll know that a girl doesn't have to wear make-up or be stick thin. She doesn't have to wear tight clothes. She can be a plain Jane with a squishy tummy and "beefy" arms, who still gets black heads. And she's still beautiful, regardless.