These days my gut protrudes out as far as my ass, and getting jeans over my thighs is a matter of prayer. Welcome to my life, where the snapback is slow and treacherous.
I had a baby in December, and I have two kids already, a four year old and a two year old. They are brilliant. They are beautiful. They drive me fucking insane.
When I am not thanking God that they are at school driving their teachers insane, I am at home. Writing articles for this site, whipping shea butter for this one, running back and forth between my computer and a commercial-sized mixer like a demented pastry chef.
*This* is the world in which my snapback will take place. The twilight zone of ‘3 kids under 5’, the unforgiving land of ‘breastfeeding a newborn’, where showers are an irregular delight and diastasis recti is a regular topic of conversation.
I go on Instagram and see sexy women in sexy neon spandex filming their sexy workouts. Meanwhile I count the steps to and from my kids’ school drop off as cardio, while praying none of the parents notice I’ve been wearing the same outfit for weeks.
There is no meticulous documentation of progress. No cropped ‘before and after’ photos. I use the glimpses of myself in the background of family pictures to see how far I’ve come.
‘Oh Look! In this January photo where my baby is coughing directly into my mouth my thighs look a little heavy. But in *this* March picture where I’m bent over picking up laundry while my kids smile on the couch, my silhouette is slimmer!’
Look, I’m going to lose this weight. I’ve done it twice before. But it won’t be cute. It will be a gradual, frazzled, sweaty affair. If I’m losing an ounce a week, I’m doing good.
And until then it’s stretch pants. Glorious stretch pants that I pull on first thing in the morning and wear everywhere until the seams give way to the tension of my inner thigh.
It’s laughing throughout all of this, because let’s be honest, it’s pretty damn funny.
It’s refusing to panic, because all these extra jelly ain’t changed the fact that I’m fine.