My post pregnancy body is something to behold. Stretch marks, loose skin, flesh flesh flesh, pale and abundant. I went on vacation with Ben’s family this week, to a house on the Chesapeake Bay that also included a saltwater pool. I wanted to swim in that pool, bad. Wanted to wear my anthropologie retro style blue gingham one piece and float for hours. But I didn’t want my body to be the way it is. I didn’t want Ben’s family, or even Ben, to glimpse my body, my fat body, having the gall to enjoy the sun upon its flesh. These are the thoughts I had. Because I am not comfortable in my body, my body does not deserve pleasure. Then I had a thought: I am already 34. Life is a tenuous, heart-achingly quick thing. And I wanted to be in that pool. So I got in. At dusk, I hugged a pool noodle and drifted. Gossiped with Ben’s younger sister. Parker wanted me to hold him at one point—so I brought him in with me. Stripped him naked and held him to me. Watched him discover the joy of a pool on a summer evening. Marveled at the beauty of his naked body. I will think of that evening for the rest of my life. My body holds me in these moments, and I am forever grateful.