How Mama Got Her Groove Back...

I don't have to tell anyone that's actually given birth to a child that there is a period afterwards where one feels very....UN-groovy. Your body has just been used as a growth pod. There are strange marks and skin hanging off of it. And, your boobs? Well, let's just say that they got an all-expense paid vacation to Mexico, picked up your ass at the airport, and hit the first flight south.

When you are pregnant you are so FULL. Not just of baby, but of fluid and life and glow and, in my case, macaroni and cheese. There is such a richness...almost a plushness to this FULLNESS. Everything is round and perfect and stands up and one ALMOST doesn't mind weighing somewhere in the neighborhood of a small rhino. Because, all the round parts of that rhino are so...so...I'm just going to say it-SEXY. This was one part of pregnancy I didn't mind. The roundness. Now, hauling all that "roundness" around...totally different story. I’m pretty lazy in general. Hauling around 65 extra pounds of lazy wasn’t pleasant. Just ask The Man.

I didn't mind being pregnant and getting bigger. I didn't mind the belly. I didn't mind the booty. And, I sure as hell didn't mind the boobs. It was the first time in my life I'd ever actually had anything someone would refer to as "boobs". Previous to that there were small raised bumps on my chest gloriously manipulated by many Victoria's Secret push-up bras. My boobs pregnant were MAGNIFICENT. I gloried at them and even told myself to go ahead and start mourning their disappearance sometime during the eight month as I knew, alas, they would not be here for much longer.

But, for as much as I prepared myself for the actual physical pregnancy aftermath, it was WAY WORSE THAN I EVER IMAGINED.

I don't say this to scare anyone off from having children in general. There are some women, some FREAKS OF NATURE, that pop back after being pregnant and return to wearing their pre-pregnancy clothes within 8 weeks. We hate those women. Do you hear me? WE hate those women. They convince other people that six weeks after giving birth you should be up, out, wearing spandex, and bemoaning that whole two pounds you have left to lose. BULLSHIT.

It wasn't that I wasn't somewhat forewarned. Co-workers and friends will tell you that before I ever got pregnant I announced pretty readily to anyone that would listen that I was NOT going to be an attractive pregnant lady. I was going to be a MOOSE. I knew it. I was going to be Catherine Zeta Jones. (As beautiful as that lady is...she becomes a moose when pregnant. Just look at pictures). My nose grew, my feet grew, and GROSSLY ENOUGH, my ANKLES grew. Like, EW, right? Unfortunately for me the fat ankles have yet to correct themselves and they might be something I actually have to deal with for the rest of my life. Would I give up my daughter for perfectly thin ankles again? Well, that just depends on what day you ask me.

Then what the hell is this post about, you say?

"Getting your groove back? That's not done with fat ankles and droopy boobs!"

Well, no, it’s not. I totally agree.

What I am writing about here today is a little something called "Hope". I know lots of people have been selling that in the past few years and I'm happy to jump on the bandwagon.

For the first three months post-partum, I was still trying to get used to the fact that I wasn't pregnant anymore. YEAH, GIN. AND CIGARETTES. AND LOTS OF CAFFEINE! WHOOT! You know, the usual. I was like a recovering addict leaping off the wagon and covering myself in sin. Look at all the things that I can do!! WHOOOPIE!!

The only problem being that I couldn’t really “do” them at all because I was being awoken every hour by a screaming infant who wanted a boob in her mouth. So, that phase was more like “Extension of Pregnancy: Months 10-12”. I also couldn’t move around really well because I was still dealing with post C-section pain. There was no real attempt to get back in shape or lose any of the SIXTY FIVE POUNDS that I gained. The motivation wasn’t there. And on days when I’d gotten about five hours of sleep and there was a little “motivation”, there was also probably some cake or something laying around. And my favorite pajamas. And a new episode of Criminal Minds. And maybe that screaming infant we had tied down in the corner.

Hence, the fat ass-ness continued.

The really fun part of this whole phase was that, due to my c-section scar, I’d put in an emergency phone call to my mother approximately 12 hours after being home from the hospital and requested “panties”. LARGE PANTIES. In fact, bring me the LARGEST PANTIES YOU CAN FIND. She obligingly showed up with ten pair of white cotton full-coverage high-wasted Hanes briefs. I’d actually never SEEN panties this large. Didn’t know panties this large existed. In fact, they bummed out The Man worse than me as I hadn’t worn underwear for ten years prior to being pregnant. He went from loving a commando girl to someone wearing panties that could genuinely serve as a purse, if need be.

I believe these are what most people call your “big girl panties”. Fittingly enough, I was a BIG GIRL. I needed these panties. And even as I cringed every day putting them on and pulling them up until they almost touched the bottom of my bra, I marveled at how they didn’t rub my incision and provided some modicum of “empty belly control”. And by “empty belly”, I don’t mean I was hungry. I mean there was now a lovely flap of skin that shot out over my incision. The skin that had once stretched over a fully formed human child. The belly that was now “empty” of the fully formed human child.

When I finally returned to work, I was so exhausted from caring for an infant from 5pm until 8am and then caring for mentally ill children the rest of the day that self-care was not something of which I really CARED. I wanted sleep and I wanted that sleep to be in a bed that didn’t smell like formula or one where I was fighting for space with The Man’s seventeen-foot-long super spider legs and an infant that liked to sleep tucked under my arm. And, while we are on the subject, maybe a shower that lasted longer than 37.6 seconds.

Working out fell into the "WTF?" category. Like, WTF? I'm supposed to get up, move around, and SWEAT on PURPOSE. No thanks. I just spent 28 hours of my life sweating trying to push a watermelon out of my vagina. I'm going to take a little break here and just sit down a minute. Maybe stop paying so mucy attention to my vagina and a little more attention to the television...and ice cream sandwiches. The Man bemoaned the vagina part but gladly took part in the ice cream sandwiches.

So, then I reach the six months milestone and I see myself naked one day (still wearing my HUGE BIG GIRL PANTIES) and finally decide that something must be done. I cannot wear these panties for the rest of my life. The Man was beginning to degrade them daily and I UNDERSTOOD. Not only were the panties getting me down but I was still wearing maternity and nursing tanks under my shirts. I was going downhill fast. I was becoming “that woman”. That woman that has a kid and then everything goes away and all of sudden I turn around and I’m a natural brunette who isn’t wearing fake eyelashes and my feet haven’t had a pedicure in an entire year and I look like a Hobbit.

I REFUSE to be that woman.

I won’t say I immediately jumped on the “let’s get this shit done’ bandwagon and started running five miles a day. Please note preceding statement about being LAZY.

But, as with most major life transitions, I started small.

I bought three pairs of LITTLE GIRL PANTIES and a brand spankin’ new push-up bra.

I almost felt fancy. ALMOST.

I won’t say that I feel like I’ve gotten back to “pre-pregnancy” shape at all. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. But, I will say that I’ve lost twenty-three pounds of that “empty belly.” And this weekend? I invested in some REALLY LITTLE GIRL PANTIES and a BLACK PUSH UP BRA.

So, you know, it’s coming along.

Next month? As painful as it is to announce…working out.

They really are right when they say it takes an entire year to get your shit back together. Because my shit was all over the place. Now my shit is held in, sucked in, tucked in, and…. one day I dream of it finally getting in to those size 29 Blue Cult jeans I have sitting at the top of the closet.

Right now, those are still two good lungs full of air from fitting. But, I’m thinking in a couple of months, if I lay down flat on my back and hold my mouth right, I might be able to zip those som’ bitches up.

I also wouldn't be surprised if you come over to my house while I'm cleaning only to find me dusting the furniture with a pair of extremely large white cotton BIG GIRL PANTIES.

I hate things not being put to good use.