If you’ve managed this you’re either:
- A super confident and fabulously contented lady – I want whatever you’re smoking
- A Vicki Beckham type who snapped straight back into her size 6 M.i.h jeans immediately after passing the placenta (which smelt of roses)
The potential special post-partum gifts that I am aware of, there may be more!
- Stretch marked boobs
- Stretch marked tummy
- Nips like one of those stretchy men you get in a party bag
- Scar from C-sec
- Lady garden scars from the various methods of extracting the bub
- One exit only
- The bladder tone of a mouse (they pee all the time leaving a trail)
- A pelvic floor swinging like a hammock
- Various other slightly embarrassing or uncomfortable reminders
- Perma baby doughnut (that weight round the middle that just will not bloody shift)
I was asked by the lovely Yvonne of KemiKids http://kemikids.com/2016/01/08/my-life-helen-morris/ what I thought of my post-baby body. Wowzers. My answer: Five years later and I’ve nearly accepted it. I view it as Pompeii – once glorious, now devastated by forces beyond my control; but still lovely in its own way and admired (by one).
At 41 weeks pregnant with my first, I was silently but viciously attacked by a saber-tooth tiger. I survived but my body still bears the scars. STRETCH-MARKS. I was oblivious. My bump was so enormous that I couldn’t see the bit between b-button and muff. I was living in ignorant bliss until the consultant, while prodding my gigantic bump, said “did that used to be a tattoo of a strawberry?” Used to? What? I got cable boy (him-indoors) to hold a mirror to the lost area when I got back. Sh1t, Lord Voldemort found me. He cursed me with angry reddy/purple lightning strikes across my gunt and right through my ‘special mark’.
With my 2nd I actually looked down around 38 weeks and watched and felt a ‘K’ being torn through what was left of my b-button. I thought it was a sign of some sort. She seems ok, but by stomach is a Jackson Pollock master-piece.
Now they have faded to silvery flesh-ladders, like silk worms sliding down to what was once my husband’s favourite venue. Robbie Williams on watching his wife give birth said it’s “like watching his favourite pub burn down”. Wow, it really must be tough for you. Sorry.
I have struggled, I have sobbed, I have moped and still torture myself by looking back at pics of me in a stripper bikini in the Great Barrier Reef c.2001. Now, I have invested in a couple of designer swim-suits and count my blessings. It could have been worse.
I’ll leave you with ‘The stressed out mum rap’, an oldie but spot-on. Never got that crotch-chop out of my head “once we talked about our lives, now the conversation switches; we compare caesarean scars, episiotomy stitches”. Watch Mum Rap here