I started sprouting stretch marks on my stomach. I’m used to the white, squiggles that spread like a stocking run. But the red ones? The ones that I never had throughout my whole pregnancy with Nathan? They’re here. At first, when I saw these raised lines, I said, “Please let that be where my pants were just too tight on my skin!” But no, it was where my baby was too tight for my body, where he is trying to scratch his way out because he’s tired of hearing the way the refrigerator sounds when the door unseals. Now on the cusp of 40 weeks, it looks like someone tried to barbeque me, or I branded myself when I got too hungry and leaned into the Weber grill to get to the spareribs, using only my mouth to retrieve the meat and instead of a maw full of tasty char, it’s BOOM! ROASTED!
And this is terrible for my post-partum ideas of attending Interracial Sexy Time Parties/Leukemia Fundraisers. I bet I would walk into that shag-carpeted den and people would eye my belly map and sneer a “Um, we’ll pass!” before heading back to the bowl of keys.*
I have been told to rub lotion on my stomach and believe me friends, it most certainly has PUT THE LOTION ON THE SKIN. Then it puts the lotion in the basket because I don’t have a dog like Buffalo Bill’s but I do have a mother who will take moments like that to say, “Be like me and be organized!” which is surely followed by, “You should wear briefs! Thongs are not nice!” Like during Vatican II, it was declared that mass would be in English, not Latin and MONA’S THONGS ARE NOT NICE.
I’m in a sweet pre-baby state where I can say things like, “I will work out every day!” (Ha!) or “I will implement a healthy way of living!” (HA HA!) I know I’ll have to find that balance because I’m over 200 pounds right now and not even at my chubbiest, fattest, junkiest in the trunkiest days was I ever this weight. I would like to recognize my body again. To say that I’m PHAT and mean, Pretty Hot And Tempting and not Pretty Hot, Active Thyroid.
*sometimes I make jokes that Mike insists no one would get unless they also graduated from high school in 1974. But you’d come to my key party, right? At least you’d think about it?