Mom fat

Yep. I said it. 

Mom fat. (What a vulnerable post this is gonna be.)

I have it. My mom had it. Probably every mom on the face of the planet has it. That bit of pudge that you didn't have pre-babies. That extra layer of fat and skin that is a constant reminder of the you you are now, not the you you were a few years ago. That area of your body that you'd rather not let the world see, the part you suck in or hide behind certain pieces of clothing. The part that you're really uncomfortable with your lover seeing or touching because you feel so insecure about it. 

The last few nights as I've been nursing Jonathan to sleep, when he gets to my right breast, his sweet little left hand rubs my tummy. It wanders down my side, wraps around to my back sometimes. He flicks me a little, pinches once in a while, caresses in a tender way. He doesn't care what my body looks like. Its home to him, the place where he feels most secure. I'm the only one that can calm him a certain way, the only one that can nourish him like I do. He doesn't care about the extra pounds or the new curves or the stretch marks. He just wants to touch me and know that I'm there. His home base, his safe place. Its so sweet. So simple. Beautiful, really. This is a thing I'll miss when our nursing relationship comes to an end.

The mom fat. 

I remember the rare times that I'd see Mom in just her underwear and I remember almost pitying the way her body had become with older age. The photos I'd seen of her in her younger years were stunning, she was a knockout, I know why my dad was so head-over-heels for her. How very shallow of me, how outward-appearance-only of me. I was young. I cared what I looked like more than I wanted to admit and if I'm being really honest, I cared what my mom looked like and I wasn't so proud of her body as she got older and carried on extra pounds after carrying, birthing and raising us all those years. I'm not proud of this confession today, but it feels important to say so that when my children read this in years to come they know that I was human, that I had/have my insecure and selfish moments too. I want them to know that the grandmother they'll never get to know was a real woman. I'm sure there were parts of her body she wasn't crazy about and I bet there were times in her life where she compared herself a few times too many or said unkind things about herself more than she should've. But we are real women. Imperfections, extra curves, fears and all. These things don't make us less than, quite the contrary. I would argue that they make us great. Relatable. And I've already said it, but REAL! 

I'm not willing to just settle for how my body is right here and now, I want to be healthier for sure. I am slowwwwly taking steps to get there too. But in this moment, I am really trying to be more okay with how I am post-baby and how I'm aging. I like what Shauna Niequist says on page 184 of her book Bread and Wine: "I want to be the kind of person who makes peace with her body. Also, I want to fit into my pants. Not size-two pants. Not Barbie pants. Just, you know, very average-sized jeans from the Gap. I want to live with peace and confidence, without deprivation and shame, and while I'm being honest, I want to retire the maternity yoga pants that, unfortunately, I'm still wearing because they're the only ones that fit. I don't want to live by rules and regulations, but I also don't want to be ruled by my appetites."

No living by my rules or the rules that society tries to force upon me as a woman. No more being a slave to my appetites either. I am a work in progress and I'm covered by the grace of Jesus which makes me whole. 

Thank goodness.