We’re making our way to our table for brunch on Sunday, my husband carrying our two-year-old and me pushing the stroller with the baby, when the hostess exclaims, “Oh congratulations! A son, a baby … and another one on the way?” We both look down at the pooch that pops out where my formerly flat stomach used to be. I slowly look back up: “Nope, just the two kids,” quickly adding, “the baby is only a couple weeks old.”
Embarrassment all round.
Because my recent labor wasn’t nearly as intense as the first pregnancy, I assumed I could bounce back to my normal body shape much faster — but the only thing bouncing these days is my jiggly belly every time I give it a little poke. This limits my wardrobe choices considerably. I alternate between empire-waisted maternity tops draped over belly-banded bottoms (that happen to slide down my butt like old-school Marky Mark) or pre-pregnancy tops stretched tightly over unzipped pre-pregnancy bottoms.
It’s tough to reconcile a body that’s stuck between half normal and half pregnant. Fortunately, my husband doesn’t seem to mind. He’s a bit distracted by the girls up top. (Men classify themselves as leg guys or butt guys but I think every one of them is a boob guy.)
The hostess’s remark stung, I admit, but as the four of us, my family, ate our meal, I realized that it really didn’t matter. The life I’ve built with my husband and children trumps a clueless comment any day.
I will get rid of my pooch — because it matter to me — but until then, I’ve decided that I’ll simply focus on my new assets. No apologies.
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About Sabrina Clark.