Everyone who has had a baby has one of these stories. You know what I’m going to say. You are minding your own business at the park, the grocery story, the dry cleaners, and-- bam!--it happens. Some moron with a big sickly smile asks you when you’re due.
And you tell them. Uh, that would be two years ago.
My story is from when I was actually about two days pregnant with Jay. (Mind you, if I had said I was six weeks pregnant when this happened, then I would have been in the clear because I balloon up when I get pregnant. Maybe it’s because I have big babies. Probably it’s more because I celebrate with large pizzas and ice cream.) Anyways, we had just spent a great Labor Day weekend at the Russian River, swimming and sunning with the two kids every day. A really nice 50-something woman, with grown kids of her own, had taken to Danny over the summer, helping him with everything from making mud balls to teaching him the right way to roll down the hill into the water. We were sad to see her leave at the end of the weekend and we all talked about how we looked forward to seeing each other the next year.
“Yes,” she said, with that good old glazed-over grin. “And we’ll have a new baby next year too I see.”
I don’t know whose expression was more full of horror, mine or Dan’s, as he knew what he was going to have to live with for at least a month.
“No,” I told the lady, trying to fight back tears. “I’m just fat.”
Now, she was nice and all, and tried to say nice things but I heard nothing other than my own heart beat thumping in my ears. I never felt so gross, so unkempt Believe me, I would bet a million dollars that there is no one who loves being pregnant more than I do, (and not just for that pizza and ice cream) but even I don’t want to be pegged as a preggo two years later.
Recently, I’ve thought my stomach is getting bigger and that I am looking more pregnant than ever. I keep weighing myself but there is no gain. And that’s when I realized the problem: my belly isn’t bigger, it just isn’t getting smaller with the rest of me. And, after staring at all my friends (sorry everyone if this is weirding you out at this point) and every single random woman I have seen from Starbucks to the gym, I realized the basic truth of this perma-bump situation: Once you have had a baby you are screwed.
Even my skinniest, most fit friend admits that her belly is not flat. The one mom I know who has an amazing stomach revealed to me her tummy tuck scar (and scared me right out of plastics with her it-was-a-week before-I-was-out-of-agonizing-pain-but-really-it-wasn’t-so-bad story). So, barring some extra help, I think that the perma-bump is here to stay. It’s like our kids want to leave their calling card, leave the equivalent of heights marked on a kitchen wall on our war-torn bellies, just to prove they were once there.
I bet you think I am going to get all Lillith Fair on you now and say that I realized that I love my perma-bump, that it is my badge of honor as a mother and that I am beautiful just the way I am. But, you know what, screw that. If we women are smart enough to have babies, run companies, run households, and still have time to watch a Lifetime movie here and there, we’ve got to be able to figure out how to get rid of these perma-bumps without getting sliced open.
Or at the very least, we should be able to get someone to start making bathing suits made entirely of Spanx.
