This morning, for story time, Ben chose three Eric Carle books for me to read to him. As I went to sit next to him in one of our leather chairs, he says "Mommy, you have a big butt. Why you have a big butt, Mommy?" I decided that a nice version of the truth would be most appropriate, so I kindly explained "because mommy just had a baby." (okay- we all know that I pretty much had a big butt before Seth was conceived but that is currently beside the point.) Anyway, Benjamin quickly retorted "Molly's mom doesn't have a big butt, Mommy." I took a very deep breath and replied that Molly's mom hasn't had a baby in over eight years so she doesn't count (Molly's mom is upwards of six feet and most likely has a metabolism faster than most Ethiopian runners- this is what I tell myself, anyway). In years past, this sort of painful conversation would have launched me into semi-suicidal thoughts, or at least an immediate plan to run to my nearest Jenny Craig. Now, though, I have chosen to embrace my whole body, even my big butt (and big belly) with a measure of acceptance. I like big butts, especially my own.