were invisible. How could God do this to me? He had taken my beauty away when it was all I had!
In unlaced stomachers and skirts with extra panels sewn in, I waddled around in a pair of plum velvet house slippers—the only shoes my swollen feet could abide—graceless as a duck. I didn’t go a-Maying that year; I was too fat to fit into my green gown, and I couldn’t bear to disfigure it by sewing in panels when I could not find fabric to match that exact same shade of green. No, far better that I keep to my chamber; I was too unsightly even for me to look upon, and I could not bear to see the gloating triumph in the other women’s eyes. So I stayed at home and watched all the pretty peasant girls traipsing off to the fair, to gather May flowers and dance around the Maypole with amorous gallants with whom they would retreat into the greenwood afterward. How I envied them and wished I could be one of them! What I wouldn’t have given for just one hour with a lusty gallant clutched tight between my thighs! But then I thought of his eyes looking down upon the disgusting sight of my aching milk-filled breasts, swollen full-moon stomach, and mottled, pimpled thighs and veiny limbs, and I barely reached my chamber pot before I vomited.
My daughter was born in deep summer’s hottest days, in the bed of the Seven Deadly Sins, with their carved faces leering and jeering at me through the hazy waves of pain. I cursed Eve and the child for causing me such agony. Oh what torture! The way it stretched and burned, I was certain my pretty pink cunny would never delight a man again. After this ordeal, I was sore afraid it might not be such a pretty and pleasing sight anymore and I would have to keep it hidden. But when it was all over and I held Mary in my arms for the very first time, I instantly dried my tears and forgave her everything—she was so beautiful! “This must be just like Helen of Troy’s mother felt!” I exclaimed with a radiant smile as I admired my perfect little girl.
She was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen and seemed to grow more so every day. Curls like spun gold, soft as silk, covered her scalp; I could not stop twirling them around my fingers, longing for the day when they were long enough to wear silk ribbons. Her mouth was like a tiny perfect pink rosebud, so exquisite, and equally enamored with giving kisses as well as receiving them. I think to kiss was the first thing she ever learned how to do. Her cheeks were plump and rosy, and her eyes a lively amber, as exciting and enticing as jewels, and God had blessed her with the most delightful dimples. When they came, her teeth were exquisite little pearls, and she seemed to always be smiling. I don’t believe I ever saw my little girl frown. She hardly ever cried; instead she uttered the most delightful little gurgles and soon learned to laugh. I would put on one of my prettiest dresses now that they fit again and have her brought to me, and would sit with her cradled in my lap and croon over her, caressing her curls and calling her “my sweet cherub” and “my little doll,” telling her over and over again how beautiful she was. And I promised my “precious little pearl” that I would not “suffer her to be thrown down before a swine” as I had been; as long as there was breath within my body I would never allow it. God had blessed my daughter with the most important gift He can give a woman—beauty—and I vowed that she would have a husband worthy of her—handsome, lusty, and rich. As I would not have a valuable diamond set in tin, nor would I see my daughter’s golden beauty matched with base ugliness and a boorish, boring personality like the man who had sired her.
The following year brought me a handsome son, fey and moody from the cradle. Black-haired and dark-eyed, I called him my “Dark George” for both his coloring and disposition.
Now that I had given him an heir, I fervently hoped my husband’s ardor to keep me
In unlaced stomachers and skirts with extra panels sewn in, I waddled around in a pair of plum velvet house slippers—the only shoes my swollen feet could abide—graceless as a duck. I didn’t go a-Maying that year; I was too fat to fit into my green gown, and I couldn’t bear to disfigure it by sewing in panels when I could not find fabric to match that exact same shade of green. No, far better that I keep to my chamber; I was too unsightly even for me to look upon, and I could not bear to see the gloating triumph in the other women’s eyes. So I stayed at home and watched all the pretty peasant girls traipsing off to the fair, to gather May flowers and dance around the Maypole with amorous gallants with whom they would retreat into the greenwood afterward. How I envied them and wished I could be one of them! What I wouldn’t have given for just one hour with a lusty gallant clutched tight between my thighs! But then I thought of his eyes looking down upon the disgusting sight of my aching milk-filled breasts, swollen full-moon stomach, and mottled, pimpled thighs and veiny limbs, and I barely reached my chamber pot before I vomited.
My daughter was born in deep summer’s hottest days, in the bed of the Seven Deadly Sins, with their carved faces leering and jeering at me through the hazy waves of pain. I cursed Eve and the child for causing me such agony. Oh what torture! The way it stretched and burned, I was certain my pretty pink cunny would never delight a man again. After this ordeal, I was sore afraid it might not be such a pretty and pleasing sight anymore and I would have to keep it hidden. But when it was all over and I held Mary in my arms for the very first time, I instantly dried my tears and forgave her everything—she was so beautiful! “This must be just like Helen of Troy’s mother felt!” I exclaimed with a radiant smile as I admired my perfect little girl.
She was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen and seemed to grow more so every day. Curls like spun gold, soft as silk, covered her scalp; I could not stop twirling them around my fingers, longing for the day when they were long enough to wear silk ribbons. Her mouth was like a tiny perfect pink rosebud, so exquisite, and equally enamored with giving kisses as well as receiving them. I think to kiss was the first thing she ever learned how to do. Her cheeks were plump and rosy, and her eyes a lively amber, as exciting and enticing as jewels, and God had blessed her with the most delightful dimples. When they came, her teeth were exquisite little pearls, and she seemed to always be smiling. I don’t believe I ever saw my little girl frown. She hardly ever cried; instead she uttered the most delightful little gurgles and soon learned to laugh. I would put on one of my prettiest dresses now that they fit again and have her brought to me, and would sit with her cradled in my lap and croon over her, caressing her curls and calling her “my sweet cherub” and “my little doll,” telling her over and over again how beautiful she was. And I promised my “precious little pearl” that I would not “suffer her to be thrown down before a swine” as I had been; as long as there was breath within my body I would never allow it. God had blessed my daughter with the most important gift He can give a woman—beauty—and I vowed that she would have a husband worthy of her—handsome, lusty, and rich. As I would not have a valuable diamond set in tin, nor would I see my daughter’s golden beauty matched with base ugliness and a boorish, boring personality like the man who had sired her.
The following year brought me a handsome son, fey and moody from the cradle. Black-haired and dark-eyed, I called him my “Dark George” for both his coloring and disposition.
Now that I had given him an heir, I fervently hoped my husband’s ardor to keep me
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