I’m a girl that goes with her gut feeling on things. It’s how I process the world. I’m always keen to check in with my insides before making any big decision outside—like moving into a […]
I’m a girl that goes with her gut feeling on things. It’s how I process the world. I’m always keen to check in with my insides before making any big decision outside—like moving into a new house or deciding what to order at Starbucks. Lately, though, my gut feeling is that my gut is bigger. I know it’s only been 10 months out, and maybe I should be more patient with myself, but I’m shocked my closet full of pre-preggo clothes gathering dust in my closet haven’t staged a rebellion and written me a complaint:
I am writing on behalf of the entire Closet so that we may address the many comments dating from 28 September, 2012 to the present. I would like to point out that I have never written a letter like this. In fact, I have never written a letter at all. Mostly, this is due to my lack of hands. But, drastic times call for drastic measures.
At first, We, Your Closet, understood that there would be some hang-time involved during your pregnancy. However, now that your legs are a more normal, human size, we thought that we would be able to go out once again. You intentionally pass us by each and every day as you reach for that 75 percent poly/blend, 100 percent smug Maternity Shirt with the milk stains. Where you once happily left the house donned in a smart outfit provided by us, the plaintiffs, Your Closet, you can now be found in a constant state of pajama-bottomed bagginess. Your Hot Little Black Dress is feeling blue.
To the point, Wearer, when will you wear us again?
I’d love nothing more than to magically fit into my pre-preggo little black dress. I can remember where my stomach used to be. I can recall glancing at my little two-pack pooch in the mirror after showering thinking, “Boy, I really should take that pooch for a walk and get her some exercise,” but instead I’d deem it prudent to settle for a night in with a handful of Oreos and American Idol. These days I don’t think a brisk walk is going to get the squishy Great Dane that resides in my mid-section up and out—really though, let’s be honest, my middle looks a lot more like a giant Shar Pei. I hope when my little son sits in my lap he doesn’t get lost in the folds and crevices never to be heard from again. I really like him. I’m just not so fond of my belly.
I have no idea if my body will ever morph back into the body I once had. It’s weird to see a different C-sectioned me in the mirror of my bathroom, but as I poke my belly and watch it ripple like waves in a pond, I am kind of in awe. My body did an amazing thing. It created a life that I marvel at everyday. I wouldn’t change one bit of that—I just might have done a few more stomach crunches.