fat mom.

let me just say I've only bought 4 pairs of pants since the babe was born. 

they somehow go from hanging on me barely to strangling my midriff and leaving an imprint on where they once rode.

it's a never ending game of hokey-pokey. "you put your left leg in and then realize how tight your pants have gotten." "you put your right leg in and gasp at the giant gap between latching your pants."

hold your breath and suck in. 

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I feel the sweat bead up and fall down my back and focus on my feet hitting the faux pavement of my treadmill. I'm in a line of people and I watch all the random heads pop up and down as everyone rhythmically runs in the same spot.

I increase the speed and watch the timer. setting miniature goals to not look like the asshole who can't run for an entire song off of Robyn's album BodyTalk. 

im just going to pound the fake pavement and feel amazed I'm on the treadmill again. 

did you know they have cell phone slots now? 

or that with the invention of Bluetooth headphones I'm not constantly battling a tangle of cords. 

it's the little things, right?

and I quickly move down my pace trying to make sure I'm not noticed. 

I'm back, but not fully back--but going to the gym seems like a good idea. I've been paying for the membership for over a year and a half and honestly figured it was just some lifelong monthly charge I had no idea how to cancel.  too embarrassed to admit I'm one of those non-gym rats. 

but after having a day of random things dropped in and poking your eyeballs it seemed like a good idea. 

I came home earlier in the day with vision I could only explain as "on the verge of having to go to the ER drunk." to see my little girl, Rae--smiling with her milk cup and The Jungle Book on repeat. to say that my life is as organized as I want it to be would be a complete farce.

but i look at her and i think about the times that she's poked at my breasts and belly, never realizing they are different things.  i think about my overhang of pudge.  she has no idea how bad that made me feel.  how much my face flushed.  this is something i have to fix.

i need to be a hot mom in yoga pants.

but simply, i don't think i could ever be that organized.

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she was still wearing her pajamas by 3pm and the only thing we felt like eating for dinner was tater tots and scrambled eggs. but, we get by. 

but I can still come home to a smiling toddler and a teenager who is growing into an amazing adult. 

trying to shed the skin of illness and winter and come out feeling fresh. it's not an easy process. and I go to therapy and spend every waking moment combatting the urge to crawl in bed and dream of building bunk beds in the closet.  and i wake up with this frontal pudge I've never dealt with before. hello, hibernation stomach.

fuck mothers--saying getting stretch marks are tiger stripes.  they obviously didn't spend the hundred dollars that i did to prevent those ugly red marks from ever appearing.  let me hip carrying a toddler be a warrior cry for going through those lovely pains of childbirth.  not my ever clear stretch marks.

my stretch marks from childbirth are a bright reminder that my body is marked.  no one cares if it is from a baby.  take care of yourself, they say.

work out and be healthy.  but pretty much i do, and my waistline stays under the plus size mark.  not to say I'm in the best shape.  but all the ex's of ex's of ex's are all on their heroine sheik bodies, and I'm cooking chicken for a family of four.

i'm just going to pound the faux pavement and continue to avoid ice cream