I have one. A soft belly. I have a pooch. I’m socially unacceptable in that way, where the world is quietly/loudly telling me that I need to starve or exercise myself into a size two.
My tummy is now home to baby number five.
It’s providing cushion for my three year old, as he lays with me watching a movie.
“You’re soft, Mama.” It’s not an insult. Not when he’s cuddled up and happy to be with me. He’d rather lie on me than on the floor where “it’s too hard”.
I’m happy to provide him comfort.
And I’m feeling blessed to be the only one chosen to bring this precious life into the world. There will never be another like this child.