It’s 9:44 p.m., and my husband and I have just devoured an entire sheet of white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies. I won’t lie—I ate two of them before they even went into the oven. By the end, I had polished off eight cookies.
I know it’s not the healthiest choice. I know I should be fueling my body with better options. I know that if I keep snacking late at night, these extra ten pounds of baby weight are going to cling to me like gorilla glue forever. But, oh my God, those cookies are just so, so good.
Does anyone remember what it felt like to be young? I mean really young—like under 25? I remember walking across my college campus in daisy dukes and tank tops, feeling unstoppable. I was a cross country runner, part of an elite sport that let me eat anything without gaining an ounce. It felt like magic.
And my boobs? They were phenomenal. Sometimes, I didn’t even need a bra—they just stayed up all on their own. Sorcery, I tell you.
I’m not saying I’m less attractive now that I’m a mother. But let’s be honest—my chances of walking a Victoria’s Secret runway have probably vanished. Not that any agents were knocking on my door in the first place…
Here’s the truth I’m trying to reach: my body is different now.
I remember as a little girl lying on my mother’s stomach. “Your tummy feels like Jell-O, Mommy,” I’d say, snuggling into her softness. Her stomach was my comfort, my pillow made of clouds. I would move with the rise and fall of her breath, curl my head into her chest, and let her fingers stroke my hair. Sometimes she’d sing. Sometimes I’d fall asleep just listening to the beat of her heart.
I didn’t realize until high school that my mom struggled with her body. I would catch her staring in the mirror, muttering things like, “This shirt makes me look fat,” or “Look at my muffin top.” I didn’t understand why she had a tummy tuck—I thought she was beautiful just the way she was. In fact, I was sad the Jell-O tummy was gone.
I never understood why she disliked the part of her I loved most. But now, I do. I know what it’s like to love your child with every fiber of your being and still feel like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. I know the ache of staring at stretch marks and thinking, “I would give anything to wear a bikini confidently again.” I understand now, Mom. And just so we’re clear—I believe women have every right to do whatever makes them feel beautiful.
Still, I’ve decided to try loving my body for what it is. I’ve decided that today, I will actively embrace every stretch mark, every extra pound, every inch of fluff. As I hold my son in my arms, pressed against my Jell-O tummy, I say to myself:
Thank you, Jell-O tummy, for giving my son a warm place to sleep.
Thank you, stretch marks, for stretching just enough to create my beautiful baby.
Thank you, droopy boobies, for producing milk that nourishes my son.
If you’re a mother like me, struggling to learn how to love your “new you,” I urge you to say the same things. You are strong. You are beautiful. You are a freaking rock star for bringing life into this world.
And for heaven’s sake, eat the damn cookies. You’ve earned them.
