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The Great 'Gina Massacre

It is a wonderful time to be pregnant. Stylish preggos flaunt their baby bumps in artfully fitted maternity dresses on their way to prenatal yoga. Ever the walking emblem of fertility, womanhood, the future of our great nation, doors are opened, groceries carried, all while well meaning strangers ask “are you ready to pop yet?” Pregnant celebrities grace the covers of magazines, flaunting their airbrushed bellies, cupping their newly ample sweater muffins in their hands and proclaiming that they’ve never felt sexier.

I loved it. I miss it.

You’ll find no such celebration of the 12 weeks postpartum body. There’s a reason for this: the newly postpartum body is a DISASTER. Those beautiful round bosoms, now put to work, constantly swell and deflate, transforming your pert, full sweater muffins into tired, sad ole flapjacks. You suddenly understand why and how mom jeans happen to good women the first time you purchase new clothes. The jiggly mess where you bump used to be spills over the top of those cute low-rise jeans you used to wear, and insecurity drives you to pick something with a higher cut. And lets not even talk about what happens to your vagina. Let’s just say that a friend of mine accurately predicted the result when she referred to my upcoming delivery as the “great ‘gina massacre.”

The good news is that everybody will be paying attention to your cute baby and you’ll be too exhausted to care about your muffin top or even notice the spit up in your hair. However, there will come a day when you start to think about caring again. For me, this was pretty recent.

There was a time when I thought I could never watch enough TV or spend enough time in my pajamas. I love television, and equipped with my trusty DVR, I enjoyed a lot of trash tv in those first couple of weeks in order to keep myself occupied during the endless cycle of nursing and burping. I was actually relieved when the day came that I grew sick of lounging in my pj’s and watching television. I had underestimated myself; it turns out I do give a shit. I sucked it up and purchased some new clothes, as one cannot, should not, live her whole life in maternity pants, however forgiving that waistband is. I’m still working on figuring out who I want to be and what I want to look like in this new phase of life, but I’m wearing real pants, and that’s progress.


I like how her stomach is air-brushed to the point of no belly button.

Wearing real pants depresses me, as they are several sizes larger than my pre-pregnancy pants.

July 2012

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