I almost never venture into my closet anymore, simply because there are so many clothes in there that still donÂt fit me (I keep the few that do in piles atop my dresser). Whenever I poke my head in, I catch a whiff of not only cedar, but also of my former selfÂmy career, my freedom, my relatively sleek physique. This makes me nostalgic, of course; it also makes me feel fat, a little pathetic, and overwhelmed by my complete lack of a plan for my life (past get a new diaper on the baby). So generally speaking, I close the door fast, and get out of there—back to the stinky, slobbery, sweat-pantsy chaos of my current situation.
Yesterday, though, I was compelled to actually wade in there (itÂs not a walk-in, per se, but just big enough to rummage around in) to search for an old purse. As I sorted through layers of stuff, digging through these clothes I STILL canÂt fit into, I started to wonder whether my status hasnÂt changed. Maybe IÂm no longer a new mom trying to lose her baby weight—how long, really, does the post-natal period extend? Maybe, I thought, as I caressed too-tight silk blouses, overstuffed cashmere sweaters, and strained-at-the-seams pencil skirts, I just have a weight problem, plain and simple—no ÂbabyÂ about it.
Could it be that IÂm no longer visiting here in Fatland, USA? It certainly looks like IÂve parked my doublewide and taken up permanent residence—at least in the video clips IÂve included here. This is me, pushing Truman in his little car. Viewing this, I was horrified by the size and shape of my own rear end—I have developed what can only be called a trailer-park butt, wide and flat from waist to hips.
ItÂs true that those deposits of fat just under the belt and right behind my hips are related to the baby—they were the first thing to develop, and actually tipped me off that I might be pregnant. But still. This ass is not a temporary state. This is more like a complete state of being—a lifestyle, really.
IÂve blogged before about my pre-baby tendency to roll my eyes at chubby mommies who cling to the baby-ruined-my-body excuse long past its expiration date. Now I know exactly how they feel. Having Truman HAS changed everything, including my hormonal landscape, my metabolism, and my ability to do what I want and eat what I want whenever I want. And I donÂt foresee that changing any time soon.
So for now IÂll keep avoiding the closet, making Lycra-based clothing choices, and sticking the blame for my lack of sveltness on Truman. And meanwhile, IÂll just keep doing the work and doing the workouts in the name of Âlosing the baby weight.Â I figure I can extend the reasonable post-partum period to 18 months, and if that doesnÂt work, 18 years.
Lucky for writer Hillari Dowdle, baby Truman likes big butts and he cannot lie!