For today’s post, I considered telling you about how Jacob has been outgrowing all of his clothes, but instead, I am going to tell you about how I haven’t shrunk back into mine.
“You’re only six weeks postpartum,” you say. “You’ll get there in time,” you say. Yes, probably in time for my 45th birthday party. (Rim shot. For those of you not up on your sophisticated humor mechanisms, that means “Badum-ching.”)
I wouldn’t mind as much if it wasn’t for my lack of wardrobe. For six weeks straight now, I have been wearing the same pear of yoga pants and leggings. And, even that wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t had been out of laundry detergent for a week. (Before you call the health department, I’ve since replenished our supply.)
On the rare occasion that I have to bite the bullet and wear denim, I slip on my maternity jeans while the Funeral Dirge plays its sad strains in my head. I would wear my prepregnancy jeans but Georgia has a law against public indecency. And, I don’t like to frighten small children.
I first worked up the courage to try on a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans around one-week postpartum. Well, I should say I worked up the courage to TRY to try them on because I’m not sure getting a pair of pants halfway up your thigh actually counts as trying them on.
Being the glutton for punishment that I am, I made the same mistake again at four weeks postpartum, by which time the painful memory of my first attempt had dulled. This time around, I was able to get my jeans all the way up. Of course, it was only after doing the jeans dance—you know the one they created for cereal commercials—and ceasing to breathe for at least three minutes straight. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything I could do to get them buttoned (the meat cleaver was in the dishwasher). Plus, the purple shade of my skin clashed with my shirt. So, off they went. Again.
According to my calculations, I should be due for another tangle with my denim arch nemesis next week. I’ll let you know if I win. If I don’t mention it, please don’t ask. My jeans might hear you and laugh at me. Or, I might punch you in the nose.
In all seriousness, I’m a little bummed that I haven’t been able to squeeze into my old jeans right away like some beautiful, slender, and lucky ladies do (I’m looking at you, sisters-in-law!). But in the scheme of life, my tight jeans are no big deal. In fact, they’re a reminder that I have a perfectly happy and healthy baby boy. I also have a handsome husband who loves me, and we just moved into a lovely new house. Besides, if all that wasn’t enough (it is), yoga pants are pretty darn comfy anyway.