I’m sure by now you’ve read Babies Ruin Bodies, a truly touching post about the postpartum body of a momma. If you haven’t read it, please leave this page now and do so!
I’m glad women are finally comfortable enough with themselves as a species to admit that, while we love our children, they do a number on our bodies. That’s part of life. Instead of being embarrassed by stretch marks, we should be proud. We should be proud that our bodies are capable of conceiving and carrying a child. Not all women are given the privilege of growing and nurturing a fetus, so the fact that we did should be a source of pride and extreme thankfulness, not embarrassment.
Being very “into” fashion means that I am extremely conscious of how clothing looks on my body. I still have clothing from my pre-pregnancy days, not with hopes of ever returning to that size, but to prove to myself that I once was that size. I wouldn’t trade my son for any pair of size 2 jeans or the most chic Victoria’s Secret 34B bra. That’s not who I am anymore.
Instead I’m a mom. And while that doesn’t mean I have to exemplify the ancient caveman images of a soft and rounded matron, I have accepted that, while my son is young, working out is not very high on my list of priorities. I’m working all day raising other people’s children, so when I come home I only want to be with my own, muffin top be damned.
And sure, a lot of times I rationalize that vacuuming the stairs is a decent strength training workout. I maintain that bending down into the dryer is strengthening my core. But I’m okay with that.
There are still days, mainly around swimsuit season, when I wish I had started working out months ago, but then I look at my son and realize that, between a full-time job and keeping the house from falling apart, I’ve got enough on my plate right now. My son deserves my time more than a gym.