OK, I’m ready for my body back.
For the last three and a half years, my body has belonged to or has been used by a baby.
I love breastfeeding. I mildly enjoyed pregnancy.
I gladly loaned parts of myself to my children so they could grow from a raindrop into the raging storm they now are.
And I still allow them to borrow my person from time to time. Monster enjoys using me as a tackling buddy, as he has begun preparing for the 2031 NFL draft a few decades early. Eliza still needs me for EVERYTHING, so when I’m not taking hits, I’m working as a dairy cow.
Like most mommies, I give and I give and I give, and right now, I just want one thing in return:
I would love to be able to squeeze my large, child-rearing rear into my pre-pregnancy clothes.
What’s that, you say? The baby isn’t even 3 months old yet?
Let me check … oh, right, I DON’T CARE.
It’s summer, people. Summer in the South. I have exactly ONE pair of shorts that fit me that aren’t jogging shorts, and ZERO shirts that are both breastfeeding-friendly and appropriate for a 29-year-old woman to wear in public. Sorry, Jerry Rice jersey I found at a Goodwill 10 years ago, you didn’t make the cut.
Women not only have the pressure of being good mommies, but also hot ones. Every swimming pool I have been to this summer has been like MILF Island. (What is up with mommies in skimpy bikinis? Cover up, you skinny skanks, and holding your infant in your arms doesn’t count. You are crushing my self-confidence while at the same time making me wish I were you. I feel jealous, ashamed and – admittedly – slightly aroused all at once.)
Do I sound like I’m griping about being a woman? I really don’t mind it, though I do think Mother Nature reneged on our contract. I’m positive no woman ever agreed to a monthly anything nor signed up for mood swings.
As givers of life, we are just built to pack on weight and then hang on to it the way my little girl’s lower lip hangs on to a line of drool.
Stupid drooling baby. Of course, when cankles are on YOU, they’re cute. It’s “adorable” when you have more than one chin.
Take advantage of it while you can, mi chica gordita. Before you know it, you’ll have two kids, cottage cheese thighs and a belly that spills over your pants.
So, I am woman, hear me roar. And what a roar it now is. My newfound weight has given me a nice bellow to replace my former, daintier cry.