7 May 2017
11.23pm
Parenting was my choice. I chose this direction. I’d wanted it so badly. I don’t mean to tug at your heartstrings and use this as an excuse to gripe and grumble, for a direction that I chose and was granted the privilege of choosing. But unless you’re immersed in it, like really up to your eyeballs and swimming in murky waters, it’s hard to explain. This is not a criticism by any means, if you are not a parent, merely a review and realisation since I became a mum.
Let me put you straight, I’m not setting out to compete with the next birthing story. Everyone has their nightmare tales of the labour and my two stories are of no exception, complete with gory trimmings. What I’m taken aback with is the state of the body – my body – many moons after giving birth. To be exact, my youngest is about to turn 15 months old and I’m still stunned by the ramifications.
This is when the “swear” box should come out. If I donate a quid for every time I whinge about motherhood or find myself in tears in the shower, in front of the bathroom mirror, or in a Topshop fitting room, I may have enough for a weekend in Legoland. I dote on my kids dearly and any profit made would benefit them!
I think I must have been living on Cloud Cuckoo, pre-kids, about the idea of bearing a family. I met my partner relatively late in life (if the average age is 27 in Britain) and so it’s easy to assume that the extra years would’ve given me more wisdom and maturity. It has quickly dawned on me that the levy of motherhood is beyond all expectations imaginable. Someone forgot to write an instruction manual, one that works for every child! At times, I think with all the mental perseverance and physical stamina that is required, that training for riot policing is a hundred-fold easier. I’ve done both, so I do speak from experience.
My body looks like a cardigan gone through the wash on the wrong cycle, misshapen with bits in the wrong place and buttons having come loose. Nobody told me I would end up with saggy skin, a protruding belly, bigger feet, hair loss, stretch marks, and drop a cup size! I’m heading towards doom and gloom, which I want to avoid, except it’s too late. £8 in the box. Brace yourself for some sobering additions to the list, like varicose veins, constipation, incontinence, skin eruptions, vaginal dryness, menstrual changes, sex drive dive... you get the idea.
I’m not sure if anyone notices that I wear the same outfit most days and definitely the same hair, usually a week old? Ok, I know you’re disgusted but hear my rationale. Time spent on hair is less time spent in bed. Enough said! Although it does worry me that I’m exchanging grey cover up tips with my mother, a decade or two ahead of schedule.
Surely we’ve created the infallible excuse for a shopping spree! Except I cling onto the desire of being able to fit back into my old wardrobe. On a bad day, I find friendship in baggy, dark clothing and a shovel of face paint. I keep hoping that this is just a blip on the radar, a short phase, like the supposed tantrum “year” in a toddler. If only! £23 in the box.
Of course, we can’t neglect the father, who might be teeming with boundless selflessness. This isn’t about favouritism of the female though. It’s just the undeniable state of affairs – that it isn’t quite a fair world, no matter how much we try. Women bear the physical impact of childbirth.
Why was I so mean to my pre-kid body? Please can I go back to my former self to apologise and to appreciate it more? Oh the things I would tell you! You were actually slim and trim. If I’m being modestly frank, quite fit.
And now that I’ve come to the end of my tirade, I just want to pinch myself. The glass is not just half full, but full. I’m seeing past the scars and wearing the battle wounds with pride. I am reminded that the wounds indicate how powerful our bodies really are. Adorable creatures smile back at me when I walk into the room; they are visibly excited to be with their mummy! I wouldn't give this up for the world of scars. Maybe I could start a new venture in life and create a post-birth department in clothes shops, using the penalties from the swear box.
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