My body tells a story.

I love telling stories. To my children, to my family, on this blog, and especially on paper. However, my body tells a story as well, and it's uniquely my story.

I have scars. Not any that seriously disfigure or stick out glaringly. Some people see scars as a blemish on their skin, an imperfection. Same with stretch marks. We women don't want them, but most of us get them with pregnancy. I read somewhere that someone called hers "badges of honor." I really, really liked that, because not only am I stuck with my stretch marks and need to make the best of it, but also because of the positive conotation that accompanies that term. Being pregnant and growing a baby inside of you is an amazing process, and we'd be crazy not to expect some sort of physical impact from that.

When I was little, I was wrestling with my sister on our couch. And, wouldn't you know it, we rolled off, and I banged my forehead into the corner of our glass coffee table, cutting my head open. This resulted in an ER visit and stiches. I have a little diagonal scar on my forehead, faded now and barely noticeable.

One summer I was bopping around on the side of the pool at our country club, where I have many, many fond memories of summers spent, and busted open my chin. I needed stitches and I have a tiny scar on my chin, faded now.

(Are you sensing a common theme here? Rhea the clumsy child who ended up in the ER more than her hyper little sister?)

As a pre-teen, I was running in circles around our pool table in the pool house, letting our crazy cocker spaniel chase me, when I decided to trick her and duck out the sliding glass door, only to discover I had closed it. So, I ended up falling through the non-safety glass and slicing open my right hand, completely severing three and a half tendons. I had to have surgery, stitches and go through physical therapy to get the use of my right hand back. I have a big scar there.

I have multiple little scars in various spots where I've had moles removed. Those moles usually come back from the lab as "atypical" which means they could eventually develop into cancer. I'm thankful they've been removed, and I treasure my life.

I have scars from surgeries. A gall bladder removed, that was quite a story in itself.

All these little marks make up me. They tell MY story. I'm sure I'll have more. My children love to ask me about them.

As much as it might be nice to look perfect, I don't.

Does your body tell a story?