Not even a little bit.
Which is why a part of me died inside today when a lady walked up to me at a work luncheon, rubbed my tummy & said, “Oh, you’re…!!” Mortified & beat red, I said, “Oh, no!! No, of course not!”
I expected her to pull back & shrink away in defeat.
Until she said, “No? Really??”
THEN A HOLE IN THE FLOOR OPENED UP & SWALLOWED ME.
(oh, wait. that didn’t happen. i just wish it had.)
Except I DO look knocked up today. Frickin’ 1950′s style dresses with twirl skirts. I quit you.
A few weekends ago, we took off for the ocean in celebration of Father’s Day. After a full morning of sand & sunshine, we packed our tired boy & his sand trucks into the car & headed west towards home. Before pulling out of Wilmington, we swung into a gas station & it was like a BEACON FROM HEAVEN – a Starbucks on the same corner.
My man knows to hand over the debit card when we’re in a two-mile radius of that green sign.
Plus, I had to pee & I figured I’d be less likely to get some undiscovered disease from a Starbucks bathroom.
“Hey, do you mind taking Harrison with you?” he asks as he selects the gas grade. I’m all, sigh-here-we-go-motherhood, but I unstrap the toddler & carry him across the 5,000-degree parking lot. The air-conditioning blast in the coffee shop deliciously slaps us right across the face as I hurry to the bathroom, silently praising myself for all the months of dedicated Kegal exercises. Thank God, a clean toilet. Thank God, seat protectors so I don’t have to cramp a quad hovering over disease.
Wait. Where am I going to put the kid? He’s not wearing shoes & while I would kill for her abs, there’s no way in hell I’m letting my toddler mimic ol’ Brit-Brit. I could throw in the towel but I seriously have to pee. So I shimmy out of my pants & undies one-handed with a toddler on the hip, doing a weird thing where I have to lift him with my left arm off my hip & pull quickly with my right arm & then my pants are around my ankles & I kind of penguin-waddle to the toilet. Where my bare ass stands while I pull out a seat protector & manage to not drop the kid while pry it apart. (I should have done the seat protector first.) Then I turn & sit with the toddler on my lap & OH MY GOD, THIS IS THE BEST PEE EVER. I may have sighed with pure delight. Harrison’s sitting on my bare lap looking at me like, “Lady, I always knew you weren’t right in the head.”
I keep my left arm clamped over him with my right arm pulling toilet paper & then there’s this moment where I’m pretty sure we’re going to topple over onto the tile floor but I manage to get my pants from my ankles back up to my hips, flush the toilet with my foot, & then wash my hands one at a time by transferring kid from left to right. Pull out a paper towel, open up the door, Kobe Bryant that shit all the way to the trashcan.
VICTORY IS MINE.
I head back to the car, iced coffees in one hand, toddler in the other & Nate’s like, “Babe, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot you were going to the bathroom.” & I’m all, “Thanks for that one-handed pee” while I hand him the coffee with the right & strap in the toddler with the left.
BECAUSE I AM SUPERMOM, HEAR ME ROAR.
You know how moms always say that they’d “give their right arm” for babies to stay little/innocent/clean/polite/joyful? The good news is that you can totally cash in that extremity. Because momma, you’ve got life covered with only one hand.
Twice this past week I’ve been asked if I recently had a baby.
Twice I’ve been told that I look “really effing tired.”
oy.
It all started when I decided to treat myself to a pedicure. It was one of those days where I was like, “OH MY GOD, I COULD EAT AN ENTIRE CINNABON” from stress, but I decided to grab a diet lemonade & get some pampering instead. I slipped off my heels & slid into the big leather chair as she began to work on my (very pitiful) feet. Somewhere between the bubbles & the feet rubbing & the chair massaging, I fell asleep. Straight-up conked out with mouth wide open, potential drooling & probably snoring.
Can I say something?
I mean, of course I can. It’s my blog.
I don’t hate my body.
I may want to lose 20 lbs or more, the post-baby FUPA may get in the way of comfortably buttoning some styles of pants, & I do wish my arms looked like they did when I was 16. But I don’t HATE my body.
Growing up, I did hate my body but only because people misused the word “big” to describe my height. ”Oh, you’re so big!” was okay when I was five, but not when I was thirteen. Those weird PE classes when we learned to ballroom dance & the girls outnumbered the boys? Yeah, I always had to be a “boy” because I was “big.” Which is why I’m pretty amazing at leading a fox trot. I hated my height because it meant I was shoved to the back of every picture, every line, every assembly. When I was eight, I started getting boobs & wore my first bra. I’ll never forget the first time the boys unsnapped it from over my shirt while the librarian read us a book. I cried in the bathroom, hating myself that I was the only girl in our class to wear (& need) a bra. When I was fourteen, my mother & I took my old cheerleading uniforms to the tailor in hopes of letting out any length to help me be more comfortable in the skirt – they managed to let out 1/4″ in a skirt. It barely covered my rump. I had hips, where other girls stayed straight. I cried almost every night, wondering why I couldn’t be “small” or “cute.” When I made the Varsity squad at sixteen, they special-ordered me uniforms because they’d never had anyone so “big” on the squad before.
Like that time my cheerleading coach referred to me as a “brute” in our varsity awards ceremony in front of every student athlete & my squad never let me live it down.
This, my friends, is how “big” & “brutish” I was as a teenager:
(please check & respect the whispy bangs, brought to you by the late 90′s)
(also? I never moonlighted as a hooker. The flapper gig is me dressed up for “Gatsby Day.”)
For years, I refused to buy anything that had a heel higher than an inch. I didn’t want to be “big.”
In college, I finally found confidence to love myself. It had a lot to do with my sorority & the girls in there being beautiful & making me feel like I belonged. It had more to do with a full scholarship that made me a big cat in the business school. I bought my first pair of real high heels. I dated a boy that took me dancing & told me I was beautiful, then I met a man that told me he loved every inch of curve on my body, as well as the curves in my heart. (I married that man.) I wore an incredible dress down the aisle & to this day, I love how happy & healthy I look in our wedding pictures. To be all Days of Thunder on you, my curves were downright dangerous that day.
I wasn’t a size 2, but I didn’t feel “big” – I felt beautiful. I had a breast reduction, which helped clothes fit properly. I ran a mile straight in under 10 minutes for the first time in my life. My body nourished two lives, one briefly & the other one sleeps peacefully across the hall as I type this. It chases that boy around the backyard, lifts him into the swing, carries him on it’s back when he’s tired. It rarely fails me or that devilishly handsome man in the bedroom. It hugs tired clients, distraught with worry, & then comes home to wash away the days grime from both floors & child.
I love that body. MY body.
I remember each one of those stretch marks, from ballet class to childbirth. That weird lumpy hip fat spare tire? I think it’s a fair price to pay for motherhood. At 28, I may not be ready to give in to gravity, but I am also not meant to look like a college co-ed.
So when I’m frustrated that my body gains & loses & gains again when I’m counting every bite in my mouth & sending my leftover birthday cake down to my brother, I have to take a deep breath in & remember that both me & my body are more than the number on the scale. I remember that it’s more than chugging Slimfast, but rather nightly walks with my family & taking home half my meal. I still yearn for a smaller waist, a smaller number on the scale, comfort with the lights on at night. I hope to stave off the Type II diabetes that runs rampant in my family & instill healthy living in my family.
But at the end of the day, I am more than a number on the scale. I am not an insecure thirteen-year-old girl. This is the only body I have & by God, I’m going to love it.
Every morning, I lay in the dark with my face buried in my pillow, begging for just 5 more minutes of sleep while I plan out what I”m going to wear in my head. What’s the weather like? What fits? Will I be on my feet today or behind the desk? Grey slacks. Camisole. Purple argyle sweater. Black flats. Okay, let’s do this.
I trudge out of bed & stand in front of the mirror, turning sideways & pinching the belly, stretched by motherhood. sigh. It pretty much looks like a deflated balloon that’s been mauled by a bear, as my friend Lala says. Ugly, my heart says. The reason for it sleeps in the next room & for that, it is beautiful, my head argues. I squeeze on some shape wear, just so the waistband of my grey slacks will fit more comfortably. I tug a sweater over my head. Not too bad for a mom, my heart rationalizes. It’s getting a little snug, my head debates. I pat concealer under my eyes, sweep my hair off to the side with a clip. Nate walks in & wraps his arms around me & says, “You look pretty, sweet.” My heart soars at his compliment but I scoff, “Even more proof that love is blind.”
A constant debate of self-esteem & body image.
I struggle with loving my body despite the extra pudge. Feeling confident in my curves & embracing them as who I am. I fight perfectionism & try to give my life-producing body the affection it deserves. I will never be stick-thin & leggings will never be a good look for me, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t have a positive body image. Love me? Love my love handles.
On the flip side, I struggle with not becoming complacent in my body. I want to embrace my curves & accept the hips that could put J. Lo to shame, but I don’t want to use it as an excuse to the let the size in my jeans slowly crawl upwards. & so I struggle to find balance between positive body image but not settling.
Do you struggle with this? Any words of affirmation that you tell yourself in the mornings?
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