Two people asked me this week if I was hoping "this one" is a girl. The nurse at the boys' pediatric appointment on Friday asked me if I was ready for a 4th one.
To quote Mindy Lahiri, "Exsqueeeze me? How dare you!"
All were mortified when I informed them I'm not expecting, I'm 2 years postpartum thank you very much, this is just my gut. We've become pretty good friends and she's my ultimate wingman. She's not even a food baby, or bloat...this is just where I'm at these days.
Here's what they don't tell you about having that third kid in your thirties: the chances of your body not needing some form of reconstructive surgery and 40 days of intercessary prayer upon delivery are pretty slim unless you're Brooke Burt. My body basically gave up the ghost as I delivered Austin. Every time I ask it to "snap back" into shape by eating healthier and moving more, it looks me dead in the eyes and says "Not today, Satan. Not. Today." Between stored cortisol, baby weight, and fibroids that have ballooned my uterus, this middle ain't whittling down any time soon. It's holding onto life as it knows it like the South post Civil War. We're on #TeamNoSnapBack over here.
For the most part I'm ok with this. Or rather, I've become okay with it. Body positivity isn't something I have the best track record with, but I've worked really hard to adopt a healthier perspective about my body. I thank it much more than I curse it these days, expressing my gratitude for all we've endured together: childhood abuse, military training & deployments, major vehicle accident, and four pregnancies. Would I like to be 155lbs with a flatter stomach? Yes. Have I made my peace with not being able to get under 181lbs and this here expanded midsection that compulsively encourages bold strangers with no home training to declare their assumptions about it? Also, yes. I'm a work in progress, and every day I have to work on not shaming myself as I struggle with sucking in, tucking in, or letting it all hang over my pants or into spanx when I want to look less lumpy in a dope ass tee. But this week? This week Life was like "HEY HOW ABOUT A BODY POSI POP QUIZ TO TEST YOUR SKILLS?" and after the nurse parted her lips to jabber about my midsection on Friday, I shouted back "YOU'RE CLEARLY ON ASSHOLE MODE THIS WEEK, AREN'T YOU, LIFE?!" It just laughed and pointed out that my fly was down.
"But the rest of you isn't that big, so I just thought..." Yes. I know what you thought. Shut up. I get why you would assume such a thing but watch yo mouth. It's human nature to have questions but that doesn't mean you shouldn't be diligent about keeping it in check.
Here's a helpful tip for when you want to ask a woman if she's pregnant: DON'T. Ever. Ever, ever? EVER EVER. I don't care if you see a head coming out of her vagina, you better just politely smile and discuss the weather. You're welcome. My tip jar is to the left.