different about you. I can't quite put my finger on it. Oh, wait! I remember.
You ballooned to 26 times your normal size and let a baby with a 96th-percentile head circumference float through you like you were some sort of
fetal Lazy River. A few stitches and a few dozen license plate-sized frozen
maxi pads later, and you were … not as good as new, but as good as could be expected.
But you soldiered through our VBAC, and for that, I am grateful. Most of my friends
have to squeeze before they sneeze, and I usually don't, so thanks for that. I
promise to bring good magazines to read in 15 years when we're spending more
time in the pelvic PT waiting room.
get too comfortable. The minute I'm done nursing, I'm booking a dermatologist
appointment, scoring an arsenal of prescription-strength anti-aging drugs and
sending you back where you came from.
been a phenomenal four years. It was love at first sight when you swelled from
a small B to a small C with our first pregnancy. Perky, full, bouncy and all
sorts of lovely. And then, when our milk came in four days postpartum, it was
the absolute shock of my life. I've never experienced anything like it—slowly
trudging into the hospital bathroom, undressing for a shower and seeing
Christina Hendricks' torso staring back at me in the mirror. Nursing Baby No. 1
for 13 months was one of the coolest, most awe-inspiring and fulfilling
experiencing of my life: You made that happen.
The two of you are like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito in 'Twins'—related, but surprisingly so.
weaning, you shrunk down and were flimsier than before; we visited Victoria's
Secret for a proper fitting and stocked up on bras with the phrase "Add-2-cups"
on the tag. There was that one unfortunate night where we went out dancing for
a friend's birthday and you couldn't even fill half of the cups of my trusty
black bustier top; I placed gym socks in the bottoms of both cups, gently laid
you on top and hoped for the best. But I didn't mind, because you had worked so
hard, and you deserved a rest.
daughter No. 2's delivery, you filled back up with milk, but not nearly as
forcefully this time around. You were big, but not rock-hard, porn-star big.
Milk didn't spurt out like a sprinkler, turning our family room into a
lactating Jackson Pollock painting or fill my Medela bottles like geysers, but
you got the job done. Fourteen months later, Lefty is still going strong, but
Righty, you seem tired. You've lost a
lot of weight. The two of you are like Arnold
Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito in "Twins"—related, but surprisingly so. Once we wean, we'll reassess the situation, maybe
take you on another bra shopping spree. I've pondered implants, but there's the
moral dilemma of how I can instill confidence in our daughters and teach them
that inner beauty is what matters, but not exactly follow that advice myself.
Whatever happens, know this: You are rockstars.
how far you've fallen. You used to be my best feature—as long as Julia
Roberts' legs in "Pretty Woman" and able to
rock short skirts with no tights or nylons necessary. Remember the tight dresses and knee-high
boots we wore in the early '00s, when we danced on stage at clubs until 4 a.m.?
Now, you're still long and you're definitely strong from all of the toy-gathering
squats I do, but you've become roadmapped with spider veins that popped up
during Pregnancy No. 1 and went seriously
downhill with Pregnancy No. 2. They're like gremlins, those veins; the slightest bit of
water and they multiply—little purple and red branches make me look like
I've been participating in Muddy Buddy races that leave me perpetually battered
and bruised. You've become mom legs. Which makes sense, I guess, because I'm a mom. But still.
have nothing but love for you, actually. You refused to let stretch marks take
over and bounced back shockingly quick from both pregnancies. I barely notice
our C-section scar, and when I do, it reminds me of that happy day and legitimately
brings a smile to my face. (Although I never understood why the OB didn't take
the extra step to make it symmetrical.) No, abs, you are not pancake-flat. But
you look great, and can still rock a two-piece. Sorry I ignore you during
workouts, but the day care at our gym only gives me an hour, and between cardio,
weights and showering, you usually get the shaft. Maybe we'll sign up for a
free week of core power yoga soon.