I've always liked my scars...they help to tell my story.
There is one on my knee, courtesy of my family dog (the aptly named "Milo the Biting Beagle").
There is the huge scrape on my upper thigh, from the sixth grade when my protractor escaped my book bag and left its mark...and thus began my lifelong hatred of mathematics.
And before now my biggest scar was on the back of my right leg, where my "beauty mark" suddenly turned into a big ugly mole and had to be removed immediately.
But now I have an four inch, off-center slash on my lower abdomen where Rip Harris came into the world.
A few people have made comments like, " I hate that you had to have a c-section", or "That scar must be a constant reminder".
And yes it is, one that I am thankful for...every time I touch that scar, I am reminded of my son.
That scar tells the biggest part of my story yet, the story of how I became a mother.