People might have told you this but you probably didn’t listen. Or you thought they might be just talking about some stretch marks or some extra junk in your gunty area.
But no—it’s everywhere and everything. Occasionally, if you are a unicorn woman made of sunshine and sparkles, you might escape with a bit of boob shrinkage and maybe a bellybutton that can’t quite decide whether it’s an innie or an outie. But honey, let’s be honest. You’re not a unicorn, are you? You’re a mortal human with skin that’s not made of elastic and muscles that will never quite fit back where they used to.
Your skin might sag, your pigmentation might flare up, your boobs will never sit that high again, your hair will start to fall out in fistfuls (don’t worry, it grows back eventually. In tufts and sideburns and a furry halo that lasts for a year or two. Super cute!) and your pelvic floor might leak in protest every time you laugh, cough, sneeze, jump, run, squat … trampolines are no longer for you.
BUT IT’S OKAY.
I’m not going to lie. The knowledge that your rig has rejigged and can’t be jigged back together again? Well, that can be a hard jig to dig.
Women are constantly told to fix themselves. What we need to tell women is: your body won’t ever be the same, but it’ll be okay. Some women’s bodies will snap back to their pre-baby size in a few weeks. It doesn’t make them freaks and it doesn’t make them dangerous; it’s sometimes just a matter of genes. After my first baby my stomach was completely flat in two days. Sure, it wobbled and lurched whenever I moved, like an uncooked cake, but it was flat. My arse, however …
For most mums, it’ll take a bit longer to get their waistline back and much, much longer before they fit into their old clothes. Maybe six months, maybe twelve. If you just let your body do its thing and get back to feeling normal when it’s ready, you might just find you don’t really care anyway.
Because you know who really, really, really doesn’t care what your body looks like? Your baby. Not even the tiniest bit. Couldn’t even tell you what your body looks like compared to everyone else. You’re just Mum and you’re amazing in every way.
True story: one day, when my son was about three, I went to pick him up from day care. As soon as I walked in, his educator pounced on me. You could tell she’d been waiting all afternoon to tell me something he’d done, so I knew it was going to be amazing.
She’d been asking the kids to describe their mums. Some of the kids said their mums looked like princesses; some said their mums looked like angels.
She turned to my boy. ‘What does your mummy look like?’
My son: ‘A rectangle.’