I Get Really Overwhelmed with the Concept of Post-Partum Perfection

I took a good, long look at my belly stretch marks this morning. Violet saw them not too long ago, and like all toddlers inevitably do, wanted to touch them and call them something appalling like "mommy's belly wrinkles." I didn't cry (turns out I'm slightly less prone to the waterworks this pregnancy), but I did let out a long sigh, and mentally punch myself in the face for doing absolutely nothing to prevent them the first time I was pregnant. Thus dooming to me a life of one piece swimsuits and belly shame.

And that's not all I didn't do. I didn't bother to get in shape at all. Besides the fact that I hate exercise, it seemed like an almost silly concept to me. I wasn't finished having kids. I wasn't going to kill myself fitting back into my pre-pregnancy jeans for a year and then throw it all away on another 9lb baby. Add to this one of those annoying husbands who tells me I'm beautiful no matter what and makes me believe it, and I was a lost cause.

But now the thought has crept into my head that this very well might be my last baby. I mean, never say never. But I am saying, "at least not any more for a while," if I can help it. Which leaves me with no excuses but to admit that if I don't make the effort this time around, I will have officially "let myself go."

But there's so much pressure, man. Sometimes I feel like today's moms are supposed to fit in a daily trip to the gym on top of breast-feeding, entertaining their multitude of kids (with educational toys and games, and NEVER, EVER TV), do the grocery shopping, the bulk of cleaning (if for no other reason then they can't stand the mess and their husbands are like mine and play "clean the house chicken" until someone folds, i.e. ME) go to church, go to mom groups, go to WORK for goodness sake.

And there's none of this walking on the treadmill anymore business. If you want to be a cool mom, you better be doing zumba, or barre classes, or crossfit. Or in some awesome jogging stroller group that meets at the park on Wednesdays and then takes the kids to chick-fil-a.

I am not a cool mom. I look like every bit the nerdy white girl I've always been doing zumba, and while I like the concept of barre classes, I simply can't afford them AND afford the chick-fil-a. And I don't really like chick-fil-a. Give me a big mac or give me nothing. And I like the treadmill. It's quiet, and solitary, and I can put my headphones in and watch cable for the first time in months when I'm sick of netflix with the fancy new ones with a TV.

Often times I wonder how I'm going to remember to shower and brush my teeth with two kids, much less make time to try and fit old clothes again. Right now I'm just trying to the best that I can with being pregnant. I take my vitamins, and my iron and fiber and thyroid meds every day. I drink as much water as I can stomach, and I sleep in a wretched left side position every night because it's allegedly best for the baby. I do alright. Even if I'm not rubbing coconut oil on my belly every night to prevent further "belly wrinkles" and I don't go swimming or walking every day as they recommend. I will say my toddler alone has made me significantly less sedentary this time around, so I am feeling a bit more energetic and also dead tired at the same time.

But if you see me on the treadmill, doing a "brisk walk," and crying because I'm watching Steel Magnolias on TBS for the 1 millionth time, know that this is actually part of my great effort to go back to somewhat resembling my former self. And if I never do, and chances are I never really will, (it's not a time machine, people), then at least I'll know that my body made two little human girls, and if it doesn't bounce back from that miracle, then so be it.

Plus my husband thinks I'm pretty.

Happy Monday, all!

Love,
Dominique

Me, One hundred months pregnant with Violet