I’m nine weeks postpartum, and was feeling okay about myself, overall. I mean, am I going to be trotting myself around in a bikini anytime soon (ever)? Gads, no. Am I back in my old clothes yet? Dude. I already said, it’s only been nine weeks. I’m not Gisele, who gives birth in a bathtub at home then goes out and buys a two-piece. Sheesh. But for nine weeks out of childbirth, and my third c-section, and, you know, the sleepless nights and sore boobs and yaddayaddayadda, I’m doing okay. Like, I wore mascara today. Where’s my paparazzi shot, eh?
So imagine my surprise, when, as I was helping Saoirse zip up her coat today, she leaned forward to touch my necklace (Oh, did I mention I was wearing a necklace? Yeah, that’s right. I have the foresight to put together jewelry to wear out in public. Take THAT, Gisele!). It was a beaded one, with multiple strands designed to keep people’s eyes UP HERE, rather than on the grossly ample (for me) cleavage that ebbs and flows out of my top depending on when Cian last fed.
(I just realized that there are former students of mine who read this blog, and here I am talking about boobies. Sorry, former students. But the boobies have overtaken my world. I had a baby and all of a sudden I’m Seth McFarlane hosting the Oscars. )
But here I was, taking care of my children, feeling more or less put together enough to be seen in public, happy that I’m no longer wincing in pain when I wear jeans or stuck in the house wearing pants with stretchy panels. And my five-year-old daughter, my precious firstborn, my love and apple of my eye, touches the necklace, cocks her head, and asks:
“Mom? How did you put that on with your huge head?”
Leave it to a preschooler to keep your (big) head firmly on your shoulders.