People frequently ask me how many children I have. It’s an awkward conversation mostly because of my own paranoia about being judged for subjecting my son to the horrible fate of being an Only Child. Sometimes I answer some version of “Just the one so far,” so as to assure these strangers that I am neither barren nor lazy.
Other times I tell curious inquirers that I have twins. Which isn’t technically true. While I happen to have a twin sister I didn’t actually give birth to two babies. However along with the precious 9 lb 2 oz baby boy that was violently ripped from my body four-plus years ago, I brought a similarly-sized bundle of flesh home with me from the hospital. My muffin-top.
I had heard about muffin tops. Had seen them even. And I judged. Harshly. “Get a pair of pants that fit, lady,” I’d say to myself whenever I saw a mound of fatty tissue hanging over a pair of low-rise jeans. But like so many other judgments I made in my child-less 20s it wasn’t until I began sporting my own MT that I understood the emotional issues behind it.
For me it was about holding on to the past. In order to retain some semblance of my former size-6 self, I reasoned, it was essential that I be able to wear my pre-natal jeans, especially the $190 pair of J. Brands that I splurged on just weeks before getting pregnant. So there I was only weeks post-partum, squeezing my size-29 middle into size-27 jeans and telling myself that because I was victorious in the hard-won battle of buttoning them, they indeed fit.
This went on for a while but I was eventually forced to face the truth a few months later when I accidently caught a rear view glimpse of myself in a brutally honest department store mirror. I decided no jean-size could be more demoralizing than the potato-shaped figure I saw before me. So I sucked it up and bought a properly fitting pair of Mavis that may have been numerically offensive to me, but actually ended up making me look thinner.
Now when I shop for clothes I make fit a priority, as I know that size is only a number. Do I sometimes wander over to the size fours and sixes, visiting them like old friends and remembering all the good times we had together? Sure. But I don’t have time for that anymore. After all, I’m the mother of twins.
Ellen Bailey is a stay-at-home mom, freelancer writer and proud owner of her very own muffin-top.
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