I never thought much about scars a few years ago. They were what they were-reminders of bike rides gone wrong, sword fights with brothers, and run-ins with furniture.
They are not "just" scars to me anymore.
When I look at my daughters' chests, there is a thin line running down the center. Madi's, with almost three years of healing gone by, is a faint white. Sydney's of course, being only 3 weeks old, isn't even at the point where you would call it a scar. It's still a healing incision.
These tiny thin lines speak such volumes to me.
They say "Look at what I have survived. I am a warrior." They act as reminders that life is something to be treasured, and we should never take any piece of it for granted. It's so cliche but then again the best cliches are centered in truth.
I hope that when they are older, Madi & Sydney are not ashamed of their "zippers." That they know that they earned every mark because of their strength, determination, and their will to live. I may be their mother, and therefore biased, but I do believe my girls are perhaps the strongest kids on the planet. No child should ever have to go through what they have, but they have come out (so far anyway) on the other side of it having taught many of us a great lesson. More than one, for that matter.
I have never thought of motherhood as anything less than a blessing. Yes, at times it has been hard to remember. I have often had moments where I questioned my ability to be a good parent.
When the bad days come, and they do, where the kids cannot seem to leave each other alone, and there are toys all over the floor; when Madi is mouthy and Sydney is whiny, when neither child's ears are open to what I have to say, it just takes one quick glance to make me think differently.
I catch a faint white line peeking out from Madi's shirt collar.
I stop what I am doing, for just one minute, and touch that scar.
And thank God that it's there.