Wow, you're still here? Brave little thing, aren't you?
Well yesterday I talked about my less than glamorous legs. Today we'll discuss the rest of me. The parts that were affected by childbirth, nursing, and a steady diet of Teddy Grahams and French fries for the last few years.
First off, the big onion. No matter how much I diet and exercise I will never, ever have a small bottom. Ever. Even when I was a pom-pon girl in high school and weighed 98 pounds I had junk in my trunk. Lots and lots of junk. I got it from my mom's side of the family. In honor of my grandmother's maiden name we affectionately refer to it as the Mahoney Baloney. I come from a long line of fat-bottomed girls. But you know what Queen said... we make the rockin' world go 'round. Luckily I married a man who appreciates a good badonkadonk.
Next up, the belly. Women who are five foot two and a half were not meant to give birth to TWO eight and a half pound babies. Seriously. Skin just doesn't stretch like that and NOT leave something to show for it. Me, I've got stretch marks that look like a Rand-McNally road map. I was not meant to deliver little fuzzy blond children with heads the size of basketballs. So I had two C-sections. Let me tell you now, once that muscle is cut it doesn't EVER recover without the assistance of macrobiotics and a live-in personal trainer--neither of which I can afford on my salary as a part-time preschool teacher.
But I shouldn't complain. My friend's first baby weighed something like eleven pounds. Forget the forceps, that child needed the Jaws of Life to get out. Honey, there's not enough drugs in the world for that. Every woman reading this blog just duct-taped her thighs together in sympathy, horror, and an attempt to never let this happen to her. But, intrepid explorer-type parent that she is, she went and made a girl-child a few short months later. I haven't decided if that means she's really brave or if she was really drunk at conception. Wow. I didn't include her name just in case she doesn't want to share this with the entire internet, but she can out herself here if she chooses. You know who you are and you're my hero.
We won't talk about "the girls" again because, as Charlotte pointed out, I did that a few months ago when I went bra shopping. Let's just say that, no matter what your cup size is, when you nurse for 18 months of your life: gravity is not your friend. I'm still a solid supporter of breast-feeding for those moms like me who want to do it, but Oh Heavenly Day the gravity, she is a cruel and vicious force of nature. Maybe if I lived on the moon I'd still have high, perky hooters, but sadly I'm earth-bound.
The upper arms were not victims of child-rearing but a significant lack of weight training for the last, um, approximately seventy-gajillion months of my life. I'm seeing a lot of long-sleeves in my future when I go back into teaching. There's nothing worse than feeling the arm flab sway in the breeze when you're erasing the board.
Anybody else wanna join the body image pity party? Share your least favorite body part with us. Well, you don't have to share it, because that would be weird, just tell us what it is. We promise not to laugh.