I clearly remember that first stretch mark...

I was about halfway through my first pregnancy when the dreaded stretch mark appeared on my belly. I smothered it in lanolin, cocoa butter, and whatever other topical treatments were available... to no avail. And it didn't want to be an only child... that stretch mark was a partier. Within a few weeks it was joined by its brothers, sisters, cousins, in-laws, exes, friends, and acquaintances.

With each pregnancy I added a few new marks to my collection. By the time I had my youngest, my "album" stretched all the way to my ribcage on one side. Let's put it this way: you know your stretch marks are bad when your midwife gasps and says, "Wow!" when you expose your belly.

Somehow I thought that would be the worst of the parenting scars. I was wrong.

Every time a child has an accident, suffers an injury, gets arrested, or makes a lifestyle choice contrary to the way you, the parent, tried to raise him/her, you wake up to a new wound and a new scar. A new stretch mark, at the very least. Sometimes the scars look more like those left behind by open heart surgery.

Ouch. By the time I die, I figure I will just be one ginormous stretch mark...