My Hopes

A few months ago, I’d look at my little baby hungrily eating away and think, “I hope he’s funny.” Other times I’d look down at him while he was chewing on a board book on the living room floor and think, “I hope he’s a happy person.” Many, many times over this last year of his life and during the whole nine months of my pregnancy, I’d envision him older and think, “I hope he’s healthy.”

Sometimes, especially during pregnancy, it’s so easy to get caught up in the thoughts of what could go wrong. And truly, there are so many potential things that could happen, that it seems the chance of having a funny, happy, healthy baby are slim. 

But there are days, like today, when I’m preoccupied by my laugh lines or (gasp) cellulite, when I have to look at my little boy and remember, he’s happy, he’s healthy, he’s funny. And be thankful. And I am.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate the cellulite. And that I’m not going to buy every cream in the world that claims to banish it.

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