My Body, A Reminder
I move at lightening speed. I run, dance, play, Eyes glued, peeled wide. Forward always.
My body reminds me to stop.
I still have this line on my belly. Linea negra. A fading badge of pregnancy. A reminder that I am only eleven weeks postpartum. That I have an ELEVEN week old baby.
I am still deep in recovery.
Deep in transition.
I might fly ahead, but my body keeps signaling me to stop.
Look down, Hannah.
"Mama,"my three year old calls, tugging on my sleeve. A glance from my husband, missing me. The me, you know, that I was. Well, parts of her at least. The me that is still there, under this linea negra; on the other side of this transition. This body, this life, this job, this moving.
SLOW THE FUCK DOWN.
Again. And again. And again.
We rush forth and then intentionally s l o w. My body signals me, in advance of disaster, slow down. I look up from my soft belly, into the mirror, into my eyes. Connect. Slow down. Savor and enjoy. But most of all