(Be warned. I'm forcing myself to write this only so I can reference it in the future when I need a pick me up. Like when I put on my jeans and they *still* won't button. So if your pants fit perfectly and you've never felt the soul crushing blow that comes with a post-baby muffin top, skip this post. It ain't for you. Go eat a donut. You win.)
165 days ago, my body did an incredible thing. I gave my youngest child a birthday. After 41 weeks of growing and grumbling and gaining; I welcomed an 8lb. 8 oz. bundle of perfection into this great big world. I greeted Nathan with open arms and endless jubilation. It was one of the best of days of my life.
Initially, in the days immediately after you have a baby, you feel fantastic. The heartburn: GONE. The back pain: GONE. The never ending need to go to the bathroom: GONE. You hold your baby in your arms for the first time and you feel like you could conquer the world for them. You've never felt better. You're slimmer than you have been in weeks, you can finally see your feet again, and you can actually roll out of bed without a push start from your husband. You rock.
Then a few weeks pass and that euphoria fades. In it's place comes grim reality. And it starts in your closet. You've got a boatload of maternity clothes that are too big and an even bigger boatload of clothes that don't seem like they will ever be large enough to slide over your recently widened child birthin' hips. You've got a belleh/back fat combo that's big enough to be illegal in 17 states. When you stoop over your baby's crib to pick them up your stomach just sort of haaangs there, like congealed gravy waiting to glob off the back of a spoon when you stir it. Ugh. Clothes.
And as if that weren't enough, your hair starts falling out. Like whoa. You could weave a living room rug with the amount of hair you shed during your shower. You actually start to legitimately wonder if you could rock a head wrap. You may even search Pinterest for "cute head scarf styles". (You may even cut your hair in the worst Justin Bieber style imaginable like I recently did.) Either way, your hair betrays you. Bleh. Hair.
It abandons you at your weakest because even it can't stand to be attached to the same face that is now covered in mounds of post-baby acne. When you do emerge from the shower to look at your fresh, make-up-less face, you shudder in horror at what you see. You're sure you've traveled back in time because you are confident that a grown woman should NEVER have this much acne. Your face looks like it did in your 7th Grade yearbook photo. It's baaaad. Pshhh. Acne.
So, you've got the muffin top/back fat combo down, a receding hairline that makes Nicholas Cage's hair look voluminous and enough pimples to turn your face into your own pepperoni pizza. Feeling fabulous yet? If you aren't- don't worry. I don't. I don't feel thin. Or sleek. Or coiffed. Most days, the best I can muster up to feeling is 'sorta OK'. But you know what- I'm fine with that. I'm fine with a middle that has giggle. I'm fine with a terrible hair cut. (Most days. I'm still working on figuring out how to un-Beiber my current cut.) I'm fine with my newly adopted 'throwback to Jr. High' skin care routine. Wanna know why I am satisfied with this newer, heavier, not-as-stylish-as-I-used-to-be self? Because my kids don't see ANY of it. They don't see me that way at all. They're the ones who put me in this position and they don't care a bit.
They don't see my weight or my hair or my skin or my clothes. They just see me. Their Mom. Their WORLD personified. They see me as the One who rushes into their rooms at night when they're sick. They see the One who pours chocolate syrup in their milk and makes them homemade waffles in the mornings. They see the One who buckles their car seat belts and draws (really terrible) sidewalk chalk pictures. They see the One who plays chase in the backyard or builds blanket forts in the living room. The One who lets them make messes in the kitchen sink while she cooks. Or lick the mixing bowl once it's empty. I'm the One who can heal wounds with a single kiss. The One who remembers their favorite books. Their favorite pajamas. Their favorite plate at suppertime. When they look at me they don't see a number on a scale. They see the One who holds them, carries them, rocks them, and snuggles them always.
They don't care if I'm back into my pre-baby clothes or not. They don't care if I've got a million tiny pimples covering my newly exposed hairline. They don't see me that way because their vision is clouded. They see me through grace-filtered glasses. They're oblivious to these traits because these traits DON'T DEFINE ME AS THEIR MOM. Wearing my skinny jeans on won't make my hugs tighter. Thick hair won't make my kisses sweeter. Flawless skin won't make my love for them stronger. Those things don't matter to them and they shouldn't matter to me. So, the next time I pause to scrutinize my reflection in the mirror, I'm going to see myself through their grace filtered glasses. And I'm going to be happy with what the mirror shows me. And if I'm not, I'm going to give myself a little more grace. Because grace is just what mommas of youngun's need.
Initially, in the days immediately after you have a baby, you feel fantastic. The heartburn: GONE. The back pain: GONE. The never ending need to go to the bathroom: GONE. You hold your baby in your arms for the first time and you feel like you could conquer the world for them. You've never felt better. You're slimmer than you have been in weeks, you can finally see your feet again, and you can actually roll out of bed without a push start from your husband. You rock.
Then a few weeks pass and that euphoria fades. In it's place comes grim reality. And it starts in your closet. You've got a boatload of maternity clothes that are too big and an even bigger boatload of clothes that don't seem like they will ever be large enough to slide over your recently widened child birthin' hips. You've got a belleh/back fat combo that's big enough to be illegal in 17 states. When you stoop over your baby's crib to pick them up your stomach just sort of haaangs there, like congealed gravy waiting to glob off the back of a spoon when you stir it. Ugh. Clothes.
And as if that weren't enough, your hair starts falling out. Like whoa. You could weave a living room rug with the amount of hair you shed during your shower. You actually start to legitimately wonder if you could rock a head wrap. You may even search Pinterest for "cute head scarf styles". (You may even cut your hair in the worst Justin Bieber style imaginable like I recently did.) Either way, your hair betrays you. Bleh. Hair.
It abandons you at your weakest because even it can't stand to be attached to the same face that is now covered in mounds of post-baby acne. When you do emerge from the shower to look at your fresh, make-up-less face, you shudder in horror at what you see. You're sure you've traveled back in time because you are confident that a grown woman should NEVER have this much acne. Your face looks like it did in your 7th Grade yearbook photo. It's baaaad. Pshhh. Acne.
So, you've got the muffin top/back fat combo down, a receding hairline that makes Nicholas Cage's hair look voluminous and enough pimples to turn your face into your own pepperoni pizza. Feeling fabulous yet? If you aren't- don't worry. I don't. I don't feel thin. Or sleek. Or coiffed. Most days, the best I can muster up to feeling is 'sorta OK'. But you know what- I'm fine with that. I'm fine with a middle that has giggle. I'm fine with a terrible hair cut. (Most days. I'm still working on figuring out how to un-Beiber my current cut.) I'm fine with my newly adopted 'throwback to Jr. High' skin care routine. Wanna know why I am satisfied with this newer, heavier, not-as-stylish-as-I-used-to-be self? Because my kids don't see ANY of it. They don't see me that way at all. They're the ones who put me in this position and they don't care a bit.
They don't see my weight or my hair or my skin or my clothes. They just see me. Their Mom. Their WORLD personified. They see me as the One who rushes into their rooms at night when they're sick. They see the One who pours chocolate syrup in their milk and makes them homemade waffles in the mornings. They see the One who buckles their car seat belts and draws (really terrible) sidewalk chalk pictures. They see the One who plays chase in the backyard or builds blanket forts in the living room. The One who lets them make messes in the kitchen sink while she cooks. Or lick the mixing bowl once it's empty. I'm the One who can heal wounds with a single kiss. The One who remembers their favorite books. Their favorite pajamas. Their favorite plate at suppertime. When they look at me they don't see a number on a scale. They see the One who holds them, carries them, rocks them, and snuggles them always.
They don't care if I'm back into my pre-baby clothes or not. They don't care if I've got a million tiny pimples covering my newly exposed hairline. They don't see me that way because their vision is clouded. They see me through grace-filtered glasses. They're oblivious to these traits because these traits DON'T DEFINE ME AS THEIR MOM. Wearing my skinny jeans on won't make my hugs tighter. Thick hair won't make my kisses sweeter. Flawless skin won't make my love for them stronger. Those things don't matter to them and they shouldn't matter to me. So, the next time I pause to scrutinize my reflection in the mirror, I'm going to see myself through their grace filtered glasses. And I'm going to be happy with what the mirror shows me. And if I'm not, I'm going to give myself a little more grace. Because grace is just what mommas of youngun's need.
Oh Katie I just love reading this...Its so funny, inspiring, and thoughtful all in one blog.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite so far. We all need this perspective from time to time. Thank you for being YOU.
ReplyDelete