Two Best of the Rest posts in one week – if that wasn’t a source for joy, then the following certainly is.

As I write this the fog is curling moistly against the window and the still naked trees are mooching despondently, waiting for summer.

It is then, the perfect recipe for a grey day, the perfect time for a trip to the doldrums.

Until this post appeared, that is, and set alight a warm glow in the midst of the bleak cold.

Ostensibly a meander through the tales behind Christy’s scars (with a few pearlets of wisdom thrown in), it is a much-needed critique on the perception of post-birth bodies:

I, personally, am bored with the message that the act of childbirth has left me less than who I once was, that my body needs repair, and that becoming “mommy” left the greatest scar on who I am as a woman and as an individual. I can assure you (and Dr. Perky) that if there is any ugliness here that needs fixing, it isn’t because I’m a mother. A woman’s beauty is damaged, even destroyed by many things. I would suggest to you that childbirth is the least of these. [Source]

Quite why a woman’s body is not revered post-childbirth as much as before is a source of consternation.

Far from being lambasted for stretch-marks and pot-bellies, women should be showered with snow-drop petals and bear entourages of fawning, grateful men clasping palm-frond fans.

The act of giving life is one of the greatest miracles of all: the pain, danger, gift and blessing that women bear and bring forth is incredible.

That the aftermath should merely be focused on the perkitude of their breasts is beyond comprehension.

Christy captures this, and more, gorgeously – read on here.