We’ve all done it. Or at least I’ve done it and I’ll admit it to you. Whether you nod in acknowledgment or not is completely personal and your business. We literally have nothing to wear. We have things in our closets that are our size, or at least that used to be, and they just don’t fit right. And we put them on, just like we did the day before, because they are our clothes and they are the clothes that we have to wear.
So, I’m not going to start in and tell you that looks don’t matter, but I’m also not going to tell you that looks are everything. Because neither is true. I feel like, and maybe you do too, I’m in this weird place in the middle where I don’t love the way that I look, but I still want to look good and put together.
Honestly, and I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face, the size that’s printed on the inside of your clothes has literally no bearing on the person that you are. Literally.
Real mom post, here. This is your only warning!
I remember when I was younger, in my twenties, and I thought it would be fun to be pregnant. Ok, not fun in the sense of true enjoyment, all the time, but that the growing baby and the kicks and just being able to relax and not hold your stomach in would be really special and neat and ok, sort of fun.
I’ll start by saying that I definitely believe in getting rid of clothing that doesn’t bring you joy, but it can be such a daunting task. So, while I applaud a good clean out, I’m not sure we ever have to (or should) tackle it all at once so that all we’re left with is some mismatched undergarments. And let’s be honest, those have probably seen better days, as well!
That’s what I texted my husband, today. I had been having a relaxing little Saturday and was working on a post, trying to talk about self care like taking a long shower and washing my hair, sitting with my feet up, and both of my kids being quiet in their rooms, the little one sleeping, the big one not sleeping but still being quiet and content.
I can be honest with you, right? I mean, I always have been before, so why not now? Normally I’m all about telling you how size doesn’t matter and how your size doesn’t define you and that you’re more than a number. But for this specific conversation, let’s talk about size.
It came out of my mouth before I could stop it but as soon as I said it, I’d wished I hadn’t. “Your belly is cute. Mommy’s isn’t so cute. No one wants to see Mommy’s belly.” My almost two year old, with the bottom of my shirt clutched in her one hand, took the other hand and made a tickling motion, complete with the tickling sound on the bottom of my belly. She looked up at me and smiled.
I get it. You just had a baby. Or you didn’t. You’re *just* a mom. You’re tired. You feel fat, you feel ugly, you hate your hair, you have wrinkles. You haven’t lost those 50 pounds, yet, that you said you were going to lose before you got your picture taken, again. You don’t want any evidence hanging around that you once looked exactly the way that you do.
Valentine’s Day sure has changed over the years. Last night, before I went to sleep, I whispered to my husband, “I didn’t even get you a card, this year”. He doesn’t do cards, barely even does gifts (did I tell you about my first birthday when we were engaged when he got me an electric toothbrush?!), but I do.
I understand it, because it used to be me. Five years ago, I would have had some comments about Lady Gaga’s midriff baring number from the Super Bowl halftime show. Granted, I don’t think I would have spread them all over the internet but I would have told whoever was within earshot, at least.
It’s a little funny. I can remember being in college and just out of college and generally liking how I looked and how my clothes fit. Sure, I could always have been a little slimmer here or there but I knew what I was and I was fairly comfortable in it.
I also remember two of my best friends.
I mean, I struggle to even come up with something to say, here. I’ll admit that I used to fall prey to it, as well. What are the things that I can do this year to make it better than last year?
In general, I eat what I can tolerate in pregnancy and I’m more active than I want to be with also having small kids, so it is what it is. This time, I wanted to be better at accepting where my body was and to realize that all good change takes time and to not get all bent out of shape about how I looked after I gave birth. I figured having 3 kids to take care of would be challenging enough – the rest could wait.
Sometimes I feel like a broken record. I say it over and over again to my girlfriends – the ones that also have these little dictators running around and running them ragged, almost all day, almost every day. And I always get the same reply.
“They just don’t understand…”
“No, they really don’t.”
So, maybe I’ll just go out and get breakfast for me?
And maybe I’ll just eat it there, drink my coffee while it’s hot and come home when I’m done?
Like, after a few hours?
I’m not sure even I realized how badly I needed to get out of the house.
I used to pride myself on being prepared in any situation. And when I’m not, I tend to get severe anxiety about it. Since I’ve had kids, oddly enough, I’ve gotten much more relaxed, because well, as much as we would like to think we can, a lot of times we (at least I) can’t “control” our kids or their reactions to things or if one of them decides to vomit all over the place in the middle of Target and not only do I not have any wipes with me because we are only going to be gone for 30 minutes but I also don’t have any spare clothes so they have to ride home in a diaper and my tank top.