Stretchmarks.

I have my share. Four pregnancies and two C-sections later, my wrinkled, puckered tummy looks like a "dried apricot," as my friend L. once said. It's true.

But you know what? I love my stretchmarks. They tell a story. They are victory scars. When I look at those stripes across my abdomen, I remember when my children were growing inside me, when they were just mine, when they went everywhere with me, when only I knew when they had the hiccups.

And when I look at the six-inch scar from my C-sections, I think of the moment I met them, when I first heard them cry, when I watched them meet their daddy for the first time in the operating room. I think about how amazing it is, an everyday miracle, and how blessed I am that God let me participate in bringing them into the world. He could have done it all without my help.

Yesterday, I saw a bottle of StretchMark Eraser on display at the mall, professing to take those stripes away with some faithful moisturizing.

I didn't even pause to pick it up. First of all, I don't think it would really work. But more importantly, I don't want them to go away.

I love them.