It's hard to feel beautiful when you look in the mirror and all you see is someone who idolizes Rip Van Winkle. Since delivering Monkey safely and securely into this world, nothing fits the same. Pants don't fit the same, bras don't fit the same, hell even my skin doesn't fit the same. I live in fear of the day Monkey wants to find mommy's belly button in public. Anyone in the near vicinity will surely be turned to stone if they catch a glimpse of what lies beneath my spit up stained jump rope t-shirt from my freshman year of college.
What does make me feel beautiful, though, is when I open the bedroom door after giving up with trying to find clothes that don't scream "my hips were made for birthing!" and keeping my hair in place (I should really know better than to try and do anything with my curly hair on days when it's raining), and there stands my boys. And when Husband says to Monkey, "Look it's a pretty flower. Can you say pretty flower?" and Monkey claps his hands in approval, I glow from my unpainted toes to my split ends. Nothing makes me feel more beautiful than being acknowledged by my two favorite people.
And cheesecake. Cheesecake makes me feel beautiful. It's like the healthiest dessert there is when smothered in strawberries.