It is a simple phrase that we all utter from time to time, yet every time I say the words “I can do it,” someone yells at me.  I’m still trying to figure this one out.

I’m stubborn.  I’m particular.  Dammit, I want to do things myself!  I appreciate the offers that I get for help.  I appreciate lending hands, or at least the offers for such.  But when I turn the offers down, people get mad at me.  My mom, Jessie, Jessie’s mom, my friends….people get pissed when I utter those words.

I can take this opportunity to explain a few things that would make me look like a broken girl.  We could take a psychological look at my need for control as a means to keep my childhood from happening to me all over again, blah blah blah blah.  I don’t want anybody’s damned pity.  And sometimes I don’t want your help either.  But I try not to come off as an asshole when I POLITELY turn down these offers.  The following is a conversation that I have had many times with many different people and they all seem to end the same way.

Anybody: “Do you need me to help you with [X]?”

Me:  “Oh, no thanks.”

Anybody:  “Why don’t you want me to help?”

Me:  “Because I can do it.”

Anybody:  “Well I’m sure you CAN.  But wouldn’t you like some help?”

Me:  “No.”

Anybody:  “Why?”

Me:  “Because I can do it.”

Anybody:  “SOMER!”

This is when I can be seen running into the nearest wall and slamming my face into it.

When I really need help and help is offered to me, I accept it.  It’s not that I’m being unreasonable here.  I just really like to do things myself.  After I had Ruegen, my mom told me that she was going to come to my house and do my laundry and clean for me.  When she arrived, she found that I had done my laundry and was steering her away from the subject of cleaning.

My Mom:  “You’re not going to let me clean your house, are you?”

Me:  “Nope.”

My Mom:  “Why not?”

Me:  “Because I can do it.”

My Mom:  “SOMER.”

Me:  *FACE IN THE WALL*

But you see, I appreciate the offer.  I see that she offered her help because she loves me and wants to be useful to me.  I see that.  My turning it down doesn’t diminish my appreciation of that.  It just means that I want to do it myself.

Jessie gets particularly irritated with me over this subject.  Like REALLY irritated.  There aren’t many things that I do that irritate him more, actually.  Here is how our exchanges usually go.

Jessie:  “Do you need help?”

Me:  “No.”

Jessie:  “Why not?”

Me:  “Because I can do it.”

Jessie:  “I didn’t ask if you could do it or not!  I asked if you needed help!”

Me:  “No, I don’t need help.”

Jessie:  “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Me:  “Because I can do it.”

Jessie:  “SOMER!”

Me:  “WHAT?”

Jessie:  “Let me help you!”

Me:  “I don’t need help!  I CAN DO IT!”

Jessie:  *Incoherent scream*

Sadly, this exact conversation happens AT LEAST once a week in my house.  He won’t take the hint and I’m not backing down.  It’s a war we’ll always fight I guess.

But you see, I CAN do the things that I’m being offered help to complete.  I can do them perfectly fine.  I don’t struggle.  I’m quite competent at a thing or two in my little life and when I say I can do it, I CAN DO IT.  The offers for help don’t annoy me, it’s the fact that my proclaiming that I can do it annoys people that annoys me.  Why, I wonder?  It can be entertaining.  Sit back and watch me get befuddled with something and laugh.  Watch me try to carry heavy things and giggle when I stub my toe on the corner of the wall.  Go sit on the couch and talk with other people while I wash millions of dishes after dinner.  I’m not turning down the offers to be a martyr.  I’m turning them down because, well, for gosh sake’s I CAN DO IT.

This post was supposed to contain many more pictures.  Revealing pictures of my wrecked post partum body.  I didn’t chicken out, it’s just that my “photographer” (Jessie) had a moment and the picture session was nixed for the evening.

“But Somer,” you may be asking.  “Why the hell were you going to post pictures of your body and broadcast them to the whole world?  Are you just becoming desperate for attention?”  My simple reply to that is to say “fuck off.”  The more in-depth reply is to explain that my truth concerning my body is different from what super models who walk the runway in lingerie six weeks after giving birth have.  My truth is that my body never returned to what it was pre-baby.  My truth is that my stretch marks were not minimal and the stretched skin never really puckered back up.  My truth is that my belly button will always look a little weird and wrinkly now.  My truth is that there will always be a bit of a lip at the bottom of my stomach from where the loose skin hangs thanks to either c-sections or very large babies.  I wanted to post pictures of my truth to show that I have no regrets concerning this truth.  I have no fear of it.  I wanted to post it to give people who share a similar truth something to look at and smile a knowing smile.

I can fit into my pre-pregnancy pants.  My shoes all still fit.  My boobs deflate back to their sad and hilarious small size.  But I’m not the same.  I think most women who go through pregnancy feel that way.  Your body just isn’t quite the same.  Some changes are minor and are easy to forget.  Other changes are more glaring.  When I look at pictures of myself running around in small bikinis or shirts that revealed my super sexy belly button, my mouth might turn down slightly before I see another pictures of one of my sons.  I smile and say, “I gave those skimpy clothes a good run,” and go on with my life.

The pictures would have explained a lot.  Some people would gasp and say, “oh that poor girl.”  Others would scoff and say that I have it easy.  Each pair of eyes is a different filter and my truth colors differently through those filters.  I guess what I want to impart is that for me, it’s ok to be stretched out, saggy and discolored.  I still feel sexy.  I am someone with extra skin who has no intentions whatsoever to have cosmetic surgery to get me back to my 21 year-old body.

I won’t be wearing bikinis on the beach and I won’t be seen in half-shirts anymore.  Those days are gone and, quite frankly, I’m too old for some of that anyhow.  I’m not going to regret the loss of that taut skin or fear letting anyone see what has become of my body.  You know why?

That’s why.

And it doesn’t hurt that my butt still looks rockin’ in a good pair of blue jeans.

UPDATE

Alright, I said I’d do it and I meant it.  Just after Thanksgiving, I’m putting pictures of my naked ass on my blog.  I feel like I should perhaps have a drink before I hit the update button, but what the hell.  It’s not like this is the only place you can find naked skin on the internet.

Ah, the sagging skin.  The hilariously deflated belly button.  There’s a mole on my stomach that used to be right beside my belly button that has migrated, thanks to stretched skin, more to my side.

The c-section lip.  And the craziness of my stretch marks.  And oh yeah, some side-butt.  You can just ignore that last one.

Truth time folks: stretch marks happen.  Those fancy creams and oils on the market to prevent them or diminish them don’t do much.  Granted, my babies were rather large, but these stretch marks are NOT new.  Those suckers are still deep and discolored three years later.  And you know what?  I still manage to live and wear attractive clothes and let my husband see me naked.  It’s not the end of the world.

I’m 1 month postpartum.  It’s not going to get much better than it is now looks-wise.  My stomach might flatten out a tiny bit more, but the sagging and the stretch marks stay the same.  And I’m not sorry for it.

When my grandmother died, it took a very long time to go through all of her stuff.  She had lived a life full of a lot of little things and she was a bit of a hoarder.  Of her 8 children, my mother was tasked with going through the majority of her things.  We filled up our tiny garage with her things and slowly went through them.  I started stashing small things that were hers in my room.  These were things that I intended to keep for myself.  One of these things was a cheap plastic green cross on a long gold chain made by Avon.  It was caked in dirt and completely cheap looking, but it was something that I remember always seeing out in the open  in her house.  I cleaned it up, and absentmindedly draped it over the top post of my bed.  I didn’t think much about that placement until one night I was lying in bed missing my grandma terribly.  I was crying and my hand sort of went up on it’s own and grabbed the cross hanging on the post.  There wasn’t some sort of metaphysical moment where I felt my grandmother’s spirit.  It wasn’t that profound.  I just prayed silently while grasping the cross and after a bit I started to feel better.

When I left home for college, the cross came with me and was draped over the top post of my dorm bed.  When Jessie and I moved in together, the cross came with me and took its usual place.  Always when something was bothering me to the point of keeping me from sleeping, I would grasp at the cross and pray silently for peace of mind.  It’s something that gives me a lot of comfort and serenity.  And with my fevered brain, serenity is much needed sometimes.

When I was pregnant with Lukas, I asked Jessie if he minded my putting a cross in Lukas’ room.  Jessie thought it was a good idea and I bought him one.  I don’t keep it draped on his bed just yet.  I haven’t explained to him what it’s for and I want him to really appreciate that sort of comfort.  With Ruegen, I planned to do the same.

Believe it or not, it is actually really hard to find a simple cross.  I had mentioned to my mom that I was looking.  She called me one night and said, “I found one of your grandma’s crosses.  Do you want it for Ruegen?”  At this point I had already purchased one for Ruegen, but I also didn’t feel right about only one of my boys getting a cross as precious to me as one that belonged to my grandma.  My mom understood.

“You know how some people believe that when a loved one dies they come back and watch over their loved ones?” She asked me.  “I think if your grandma was going to watch over anybody, it would be your babies.”

I bit my lip and tried to hide the fact that I was using every ounce of will to not cry.  My mom has a talent for saying just the right thing to me at times and it’s so touching and sweet that I can actually feel something inside of me crack.  It’s a nice thought, my grandma watching over my babies.  I don’t know that I actually believe that to be true, but it’s a nice thought.

So there are three cross necklaces in my house. One is draped at the head of my bed and the other two are draped above the windows in my boys’ rooms.  They comfort and help with prayer and silent meditation.  If my boys are anything like either of their parents, they will need a little help from time to time to achieve that inner quiet we long for so often.  When I finally explain to them what they are for, I hope that they can appreciate the thought if nothing else.  I love those boys so much.