The iron, the bitch and the wardrobe.
Every time I open my wardrobe I can hear my size 10 jeans calling me a fat arse.
‘Soon’ I used to whisper to them, fingering them idly ‘Soon!’ and then I would proceed to torture myself rotten with guilt, anytime I put anything in my mouth. (Food I mean, you smutty lot!)
Now though, I ignore them completely. I don’t whisper anything. I just grab my one pair of size 14’s from right under their snooty little noses, and shake my love handles at them, as I turn around to get dressed. They might miss me, but the truth is, I don’t really miss them.
(‘BITTTCHH!’ – Sorry about that. They can obviously hear me.)
But the truth is I don’t miss them. AT ALL.
(‘BITTTCHHH!’ – Sorry! – For the love of god shut up!)
Body image is something I have always struggled with, that I will admit. But to be honest, at the moment, I am struggling more with mammy image than body image. I am, for the first time in my life, and I am being totally honest here, at one with my body. It feels great.
Which is odd considering I am probably the biggest I have ever been. But I am so amazed by my body and what it has created (yes, yes the sperm was there too darling, what WE created…) that when I look at my stretch marks, wobbly thighs and killer love handles, I am no longer reduced to tears.
I was, I will admit it, disgusted. When I saw my post partum body in a full length mirror at the hospital (WHY, why in gods name, is that mirror there?? Just take it down! You go from hero to zero in 2 minutes flat!) I came out of the bathroom after my first shower nearly hysterical- LOOK AT WHAT PREGNANCY LEFT BEHIND!!! So worked up was I, that the Irish one sent me off for a brew and a biscuit to calm down. On my return, however, I noticed him stood pressed up against the bathroom door gently murmuring sweet nothings to whoever was inside. ‘baby you are amazing, your son loves you, I love you. Come out and give us a cuddle.’ Imagine his shock then, if you will, when I hobbled up and questioned who he was talking to? He was mortified! He had heard crying from inside, (SEE! Just take the damn thing down!!) and had assumed I had gone back in, to continue my hissy fit! The poor unsuspecting woman on the other side of that door must have been thinking, ‘As if things weren’t bad enough, I now have some weirdo outside calling me baby!’ But anyway I digress – I went from being disgusted to being in awe of my body and all its little changes, eventually. (There were a few months of self loathing thrown in for good measure in between though, but alas, I have learned to love my body again.) I am now proud of my body for what it has achieved.
So my size 10 jeans can just feck right off. (They cant hear me now, its ok, they are being suffocated by the gusset of my size 14 tights.)
So when I look at all my old clothes, the fact they are all too small seems redundant. They seem……well….. not me. They just aren’t me anymore. Do you know what I mean?
I don’t want to wear butt cheek skimming skirts and tank tops (god forbid) with a push up bra. (I was a right tart.) I don’t want to wear ripped jeans and tiny t-shirts. (I was trying to stay young) and I don’t want to wear leather chaps and nipple spinner corsets. (Joking! Or am I?) I want to wear….. Well that’s just it. I have no idea what I want to wear.
All I know is, I need to give in, and buy a few more clothes that fit. I am finally comfortable in my skin. IT FEELS GREAT TO SAY THAT! And its time to put a couple of pennies aside for a few new items of clothing. Items of clothing that can smother my size 10 jeans and banish them to the back of the wardrobe for a rainy day. A rainy day when muffins stop being my food of choice. (Have you tried O’Brien’s muffins? They are scrumdiddlyumptious! And I can say that guilt free. Have one!)
I am quite excited really as I love to shop! Bargain hunting is a new thing for me but, you know, I am up for a challenge. If I can have 3 stitches in my rectum I can find a bargain. I am a mother now. I can do anything. I can rule the world if I so choose.
So will I be stylish mammy? (I doubt it.)
Or flowery skirt mammy? (I could braid my hair and call myself Inga! HALLO! I am Inga from Sveeeden!)
Or biker mammy? (I’ll buy a red and black thriller leather jacket with matching leather pants! I could get a tattoo! I could get a Doberman! Call it butch!)
Or pyjama mammy? (This is blatantly, what I will end up as. (cough cough continue to be you mean, cough cough) Not used the iron in months, dried Rusk in my hair, spit up down my top, last nights make up crusting up round my wrinkles…)
Or Greek mammy? (I could buy a toga and a gold headband!…. But then I’d have to shave my legs… no, forget that one…)
Or German mammy? (All I need is a towel, (for the sun bed) and some socks and sandals! I am up at six every morning anyway!?!)
Or Disney mammy! (I would love to be Disney mammy. If I could I would dress like Cinderella everyday and flounce around singing about the washing up and the amount of hair on the carpet, while Doodle the Poodle did the Charleston in the background and the local wildlife changed the baby’s nappy…)
So much choice!! I am just not sure!
One thing I am sure of though, is I am happier with my body now than I have ever been. Tena-lady included.
I would recommend to anybody miserable with their post partum body to stand in front of the mirror naked (I also recommend whacking the heating on first) and give a memory to each and every stretch mark. All of mine have a memory attached. For every thigh wobble I have a smile off my gorgeous son to match it with.
Post partum body? Totally worth it.
Which Mammy image to go for?
How’s about Pirate Mammy? (I can buy a parrot to go with my eye patch then! And meet Johhny depp!! And take Woo on a rowing boat! And teach him about booty!… oh no wait, forget that.)