I need a machine.
I need a machine where I can rest my feet, where it fixes my feet so they don’t look like I’ve been running through a field of rocks
and broken glass.
I need a machine.
I need a machine that I can stick my legs in, so it fixes the bone spurs in my heels, the shin splints from kick boxing and running.
Where it fixes my torn ACL/MCL and meniscus and tells my knee cap to sit still.
I need a machine.
I need a machine to tone and tighten and lift and smooth my worn and worked thighs and buttocks. Whose loads have been great from child birth to running after the toddlers to running from my problems.
I need a machine.
I need a machine to smooth my sagging belly, where my 2 healthy beautiful strong vibrant boys were carefully grown and nurtured, to smooth my claw marks and lumpy skin so that it hangs taut over my hips and....well you get the picture.
I need a machine.
I need a machine to lift and engorge my breasts that could never feed my boys, to smooth my love rolls and back fat.
I need a machine.
I need a machine to fix my shoulders and arms and elbows and hands and fingers. The ones who have held crying babies, smoothed hurt feelings, braided long warrior hair, carried the burden of being a son and a baby and a young man.
I need a machine.
I need a machine to plump my lips, and fix my eyes, to pull my face back and make me look youthful again.
I need a machine to erase the worry lines, and wrinkles and streaks from tears running down my face from holding sick babies and laughing babies and dying friends.
I need a machine.
I need a machine to quiet the voices in my head, to calm the ever raging storm of anxiety and depression, to clear the fog and help the light and beauty shine through from all the laughter and joy that my.....machine....has brought me.
I need a machine.
I need a machine that is exactly what I am. Who’s heart and hands are strong and loving. Who’s body has been young and fertile and old and weary.
I am a machine. The machine that gave birth to 17.3 pounds of beautiful, plump, vibrant warriors. Who have carried them, held them, fought with them, and wiped away their tears.
I am a machine who has weathered he rough seas and dangerous lands to be a mother. A fighter. A woman, in a sea of snakes and monsters.
I. Am. A. Machine.
I am not made of fluff and pink.
I am strong, with rolls and lumps and marks and cracks and creaks and gray hair.
I am a machine.
Who wants to watch what magic her children will make.
I am a.......ma.....mother. A mom mom. A momma. A mama. A mamita. A mami.
I am a mother. And I am a machine.
