if you've ever borne a child, read on...

If you haven't (and maybe if you have), well, you aren't going to care.

So I've been feeling pretty crappy about my body lately.  I know, I know. All women - and some men? - do, but post second birth it has been more distressing than usual.  Now, I know what you're thinking, and yes, I did house two humans in my abdomen for 37.5 weeks.  Those boys weren't anything to shake a stick at either (Is that analogy appropriate here? Probably not.)... 6 lbs 2 oz and 7 lbs 2 oz for a grand total of Holy Cow Get These Children Outta Me Before My Back Snaps In Two. But still... at some point a girl just wants her body back. I'm not asking to be a Victoria's Secret model here, people. I just want to fit (appropriately) into my clothing, or any clothing for that matter. My friend Katty calls it "the ferret", that jiggly addition around the navel that seems to take up residence after having children (i.e. more than one) and refuses to leave. It. Is. So Annoying.  Can I get an amen? I know you're out there somewhere, fellow ferret-bearing persons. You are not alone.

Anyway, the other day E discovered (as if this were new) my unfortunately "enhanced" midsection. Correction - she played with it.  The kid was literally grabbing the fat of my belly and pulling on it, laughing like she had invented the best game ever.  Mama was not amused.  OK, maybe just a little.  It probably doesn't help that at least once a month someone asks if I'm pregnant. Not joking. There should be some federal ban on this. I'm all for free speech, but if you don't know FOR SURE that a woman is pregnant, please for the love of all things good and holy do not ask her. Granted, last month's occurrence of this was by a sweet little four year old, so it didn't have as much sting as the random grown man in Kroger (who, by the way, insisted that I must be having twins. I cannot make this up.) It was much more pleasant when this dear child oh so innocently asked if I have a baby in my belly.  Nope. Sure don't.

There really is no point to this other than to relay to you this line from Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions that made me laugh out loud this morning: After discussing the weirdness that is exclusively nursing an infant, she says, "I'm going to have an awards banquet for my body when all of this is over." HA. I love Anne. Why it took me this long to get around to reading Instructions, I have no idea. But a memoir by one of my favorite authors about her first year as a mom to her newborn son, WHILE I am raising my newborn sons? Yes please.

So, all this to say, I am going to do my best to stop trying to feel bad about my tummy ferret. Instead of worrying about how I really should work out but I can't get out of the house to work out and anyway we aren't members of a gym and there is no more than three square feet of empty space in my house thanks to baby paraphernalia in which to do a sit up much less an aerobic routine but I could just take the boys walking except that it takes an Olympic weight lifter to push that giant of a stroller up the hill to our house and plus where would E be during all this, seeing how many blocks she can run before I catch her after abandoning said stroller? Instead of worrying about that, I'm going to throw a little awards banquet for my body in the form of having a beer on my back porch. Tonight. You are all invited, but I only have one beer so bring your own.

Also, I am going to stop shopping in anything that resembles a junior section of a department store. This includes most of the "hip" part of the women's section at Target. Target, I love you, and your clothes are so frustratingly adorable. But if it is too tight or rides too low, I am walking away. I'm thirty-one, for crying out loud.