We all have our petty jealousies. We envy the woman with straight hair if ours is wavy. We envy the children with nice table manners because our kids wipe their hands with their hair. Me? Nothing turns my blue eyes green like the woman who just snaps back to her former self, post-pregnancy. Seriously. I am nothing but happy for you if your labour was six minutes long then you sneezed--and out popped baby! But let slip that you were back in your True Religion’s later that week? My heart is suddenly two sizes too small.
For me, it is blood, sweat and tears (in that order) to get back into the jeans I was rockin’ 9 months previous.
With my first baby, I made the rookie mistake of taking to heart the advice of breast-feeding gurus who insisted I should snack often to keep my milk up. To that end, I mowed through three cups of bulk Trail Mix every time I nursed. (For the record, Trail Mix can only be safely consumed by those actually ‘breaking trail’ since there’s no other way to burn off the approximately 4000 calories per 100g of the stuff). I gained about 15 lbs in that first post-partum month and hence, was not back into my jeans until my baby took his first steps.
For my second baby, I cooled it on the snack front and just ate sensible meals and chased a toddler around. I was back in my jeans within six months.
My third (and final) child, Zoe, just celebrated her four month birthday this week and I celebrated by wresting myself into last summer’s jeans! When my girlfriends and gay friends tell me I’m looking great and ask what sort of diet I’m on, I reply, “I’m not really on any diet. I just rarely eat.” The girlfriends wonder if that’s healthy? The gays high-five me.
But it’s really the only quick way to try and erase the last vestiges of pregnancy and I’m impatient to get back to my fighting weight. See, I’m in the old jeans, but not exactly in a good way. There’s an egregious muffin top all around the perimeter of the tight, low-rise jeans. In addition, wedging yourself into any pair of pants greatly increases the probability of camel-toe. Combine the two and the look is dangerously verging on skanky.
I’ve found that one way to eclipse the collateral damage to my post-partum mid-section is to unleash the ‘weapons of mass distraction’—my 36DD’s. Nothing diverts attention away from your ass like three-inch cleavage. Indeed, I’ve discovered that it’s almost impossible to maintain eye contact with anyone—man, woman, or frightened child—when I’m wearing a clingy V-neck.
Now, I know plenty of women who loved, loved, loved their big, breast-feeding rack and even took surgical steps to retrieve it after they stopped nursing. Not me. I find this heaving bosom terribly unwieldy. I am used to a more aerodynamic physique…one that lets me jump on a trampoline or bend over a wailing infant without it becoming an R-rated event.
Further, I’ve discovered that women with big boobs aren’t just trying to show off their assets in v-necks and stretchy sweaters. They can’t wear anything else! Put them in a blouse and watch those gaping buttons fight for dear life, trying to contain the madness. My closet full of cute blouses misses the good ol’ days of 34B.
However, the best weapon in my weight-loss-holster is these big guns. They burn about 500 calories per day, which is golden for someone whose current exercise regime consists of folding laundry and heaving a car seat into the SUV. So for now, I’ll wait to say ‘ta-ta’ to the ta-ta’s. And since I’ve got the accoutrements, I’m thinking Loni Anderson for Halloween…
