Four years and saggy boobs later

Warning: this is a body image post. Even worse, it's a mommy bloggy body image post, as if the world needs any more of those. But this isn't a feel-good piece about loving your body just as much post-baby (Because I don't), and it's not about whether children are worth it (because they obviously are if you want them). This is a post about whether our outsides match our insides by accident or design. 

I wrote a bit on this blog about body image during my first pregnancy, four years ago. I celebrated the roundness of first-time pregnancy curves and lamented bodily autonomy from the perspective of a 24-year-old as that gestation progressed. However, I felt no need to revisit those subjects during my second pregnancy as a 28-year-old-- a pregnancy that came to a close with the birth of my beautiful daughter one month ago-- partly because it felt like old hat and partly because I have less time for self-indulgent ramblings in general.

Though I spent nine months wallowing in the **unique and exciting** world of baby-growing as if I were the first woman to discover reproduction during my first pregnancy, I did not write about postpartum recovery after the birth of my son. I do, however, remember feeling attractive seven weeks after his birth, when I went out with some friends for my 25th birthday. I remember getting dressed on that night in a tight, jersey knit Victoria's Secret dress and deciding not-- NOT-- to wear spanx at the last minute. 

I feel all right about my pushing-thirty self right now, but I don't see myself forgoing spanx any time in the near future. I also don't remember feeling so (physically) mommish after Charlie was born. It's possible my memory is failing me, but I can't recall a time when I looked in the mirror and saw what I felt to be a stereotypical mom body back then. Now, it's all I see. My milk-laden boobs are as big as last time, but aren't they a little less pert? I gathered a handful of stretch marks around my hips this time around (a phenomenon I manged to avoid until after my second child's due date. Harrumph.) And the cellulite around my thighs seems to have settled in for an extended stay.

 

Perhaps most noticeably, my skin is distinctly different now in a way I don't recall from four years ago. It feels lovely but looks slightly sad-- soft and a tad bit loose like an elephant made of velvet. I describe it in an affectionate way because I genuinely feel mostly affectionate toward these developments, which brings me to the question I mentioned at the beginning of this post: Is my body (and my attitude towards it) reflective of the position I have embraced in life or an inevitable product of aging? 

I identify at this point in my life primarily as a mother (a title that holds the distinction as the only one I've always known for 100% sure I wanted), and I suspect that I have both subconsciously and consciously tailored my appearance to fit that description. Of course I look more like a mom now with sensibly short, naturally colored hair than I did four years ago with highlighted long layers a la every  underwear model. Of course I am softer and looser now post-pregnancy when I allowed myself to be 5-10 pounds heavier pre-pregnancy because no one wants to snuggle a bony mommy. These things aren't accidents and to complain and delude myself into thinking I am not complicit in my transformation into a 30-year-old mom lady is patently ridiculous. 

I guess what I'm saying is dress for the job you want, and if you're really committed, get fat and saggy for it, too. The snuggle phase only lasts a few years, and I'll be damned if my babies don't have a comfy mommy...

What's that? Ten year high school reunion is in how long now?... Catch ya on the treadmill! ✌️

A Letter to my Almost-two-year-old Son

Dear Almost-two-year-old,
   
     Everyone warned me that the terrible twos would start around this age, and they have. Lord, have they. I don't think they should be called "terrible", though, because I understand.
     I understand that, when you wake up screaming bloody murder at 4:30 am after I managed to trick you into sleeping in your own bed for a few measly hours, and you are furious at being duped, it's because you like the Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and pillows and plushies and comforters that we bought you to try to cajole you into your own bed, you just don't like like them.
     And when you crawl into bed with dad and me, I understand that you try to push my head away from you with all your might while clinging to my body like a genetically enhanced leech because you need the warmth and comfort of my body, just without the meddlesome presence of my face.
    I get that, when you are crying and begging for something that you are already holding in your hand, it is because you need me to hide it behind my back for three seconds to fifteen minutes before presenting it to you in order to restore your sense of wonder.
     I understand that, when you are lying on the floor, kicking and screaming simply, "Again! Agaaaaain!" it is because you want to have or see something you have had or seen before in your lifetime, and you are too distraught to specify what exactly that might be.
     I get that the absence of trains is unacceptable.
     I know that sometimes you like to pull the dogs' tails for no reason because it just feels good be a straight-up jerk from time to time.
     More than anything, I understand that you are completely overwhelmed by the grown-up emotions you are sprouting.

   I think the terrible twos should be called the "question-why-you-wanted-to-be-a-parent-in-the-first-place twos." Trust me, I have, but I have an answer; I can see past the towering mountain of "TWO", to the slightly less-craggy peak of "three", all the way to the sloping foothills of "four", and beyond. And I know that you will come out on the other side a real, functioning little person, and I will feel privileged to have loved you all along; mind, body, and face.

Love,
Mommy



If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy my slightly-more-serious Letter to the Grown Up Version of My One Year Old Son
   
   

Quiet Moments Before a Storm

    Today was one of those uniquely New Orleans days where much of the city was glued to television sets and radios while the rest planned parties and binges. With the approach of Tropical Storm (and soon to be Hurricane) Isaac, everyone had some choices to make. As of now, most residents seem to be planning to stay, which is not unusual for a category one or two hurricane. Unless the city issues an evacuation order, many people will probably remain and ride out the storm with cases of booze and bottles of water.

    I will most likely leave. The prospect of being without power for any extended period of time with a 20 month old is not one I relish. Assuming old Ike reaches hurricane strength and continues on his path towards the Big Easy, I will flee to the safety of my in laws' house on the North Shore tomorrow morning. Tony will not be coming with Charlie and me, at least not at first, which is a stressful concept.

     This storm is relatively weak at the moment and probably poses little threat beyond some wind damage and potential power outages. Still, splitting up my family during the approach of a hurricane, particularly on the anniversary of Katrina and with certain Katrina parallels being batted around, is not my favorite thing. All in all, it has been a less than comforting day.

    All of this made the cuddly, serene moments before Charlie's bed time tonight all the more precious. Every night when I put him to bed, we sing perhaps a dozen rounds of Old McDonald before really snuggling in deep and singing our nightly lullabye, "Hush, Little Baby." It is an extremely outdated and quite bizarre-to-begin-with little song, but my mother sang it to me, and I sing it to my baby.

    While I sing, Charlie wraps his arms around my neck and nuzzles my cheek. Sometimes he lifts his head to kiss me on the mouth right in the middle of lyrics. He is extraordinarily affectionate when he is tired. Normally, when the song is over, I cradle him in my arms and walk to his crib, where I lay him down and tuck him in. Tonight, as the song approached the end, he began to pout and whimper. When I stopped singing, he pleaded, "Again, again."And so we sang "Hush, Little Baby," again, and again, and again, four times, until finally he would relent and allow me to say goodnight.

     When I carried him into his room to put him to bed, I had a million things on my mind. I needed to pack a bag for our potential evacuation, I needed to take the trash out, and I needed to check the weather just one... more... time! Our extra rounds of lullabyes gave me time to put all that aside. Sitting in a gliding chair with my child's arms around my neck and his breath on my cheek melted my stress away.

    I know these are the moments I am going to look back on with teary eyes when my baby is all grown up and off to college or another state or some lady's marriage bed. Even more than that, they are the moments that keep me sane now. Thank goodness for tiny people!

Be safe, y'all.

 

Motherhood and the Decimation of an Angst-hole

My son, Charles Anthony Pumilia, was born on Tuesday, January fourth at 5:52 PM. Just as I suspected he would, he arrived in an undramatic fashion after just seven hours of active labor. He was perfect.

I thought that, upon getting the little guy settled in at home, I would immediately rush to my sketch book, notebooks, and even to this blog to commemorate and fawn over him in a "creative" fashion. As it turns out, I have yet to touch a sketching pencil, and aside from facebook updates, this is the first I have written about him.

This is partially due to the fact that the old "Caring for an infant is a full time job," axiom is completely true. I spend at least eight hours a day just nursing. Add to that diaper changes, baths, cuddles, and wardrobe changes, and my time is pretty well spoken for.

Still, I have quiet moments like this one where I could sit down and paint a picture or write a poem. I often choose instead to just watch the baby. I find him to be completely enthralling.

Having created something so completely unlike anything I ever created before has kept me in the moment. Art and writing require a sort of mental check out; a break from reality during which one must retreat into her own head and fish out the bits that need removal, massaging, or grooming before smearing them across a page with an eye towards either entertainment or self-therapy. Now, watching my child's facial expressions while he sleeps is endlessly entertaining and snuggles from him provide unmatched therapy.

I have always known that my creative impulses, and thus the work I have done in various artistic fields, stem largely from holes or gaps I felt in myself. I will almost certainly never again produce as much poetry as I did during a stretch of time in 2003 and 2004. In six or seven months I filled five, five subject spiral notebooks to the brim with verse, much of which has been deemed "good" by various readers, and a small percentage of which has been published.

The cause for such a rush of creation during that time period was a desperate search for a teenage identity coupled with a fair amount of angst and some mind-enhancing activities. My periodic unhappiness and instability needed an outlet, and thus I bled onto a page, rather than down a sink drain as some other "arty types" choose to do.

In the spring of 2005, while I was in my second term at Tulane and certainly at my most nihilistic, I wrote over 200 pages of a single spaced, 10 pt. novel in less than two months. It was almost definitely my most emotionally tumultuous phase, and it resulted in a manic flurry of word vomit in the form of a dark and melancholy monologue that will never be finished for various reasons.

The point I am trying to make is that I have always used creation as an emotional outlet, which is not unusual. Perhaps unfortunately, that means that as I have gotten older, happier, and more stable, my desire and need to create has diminished. By the time I got pregnant, I had only a very tiny angst-hole in my soul left to fill.

Now, I am filling that hole in the simplest of ways. Rather than absorbing my energy into myself, I am bouncing it off my little one to be consumed by the ethos. I am filling my hole by staring into the tiniest, steel-blue eyes and singing "You Are My Sunshine" on repeat. By kissing little foot arches and tickling minute ribs. By waking up in the middle of the night to petite whimpers that sound remarkably like Nicki Minaj's entire catalog of work. And I can't feel any holes anymore.

I have been told by numerous individuals who make their living in various artistic fields that the arts need not be an escape from pain and unrest. That Elliot Smith and Vincent Van Gogh are the exception and not the norm. These people claim to project positive feelings into their art. They hope that their work can inspire and entertain on its own. It need not be laden with hard-wrestled traces of their demons in order to have worth.

I never really believed any of that. I thought it was a grown-up line used to mask the unchecked adolescent torment that all artists must still possess. However, I might be changing my mind. I have a tiny, tiny, perfect face peering at me out of a fish-themed bouncy chair right now, and its vaguely simian expression is making my heart swell a bit. Maybe, if I can find a way to massage this love onto canvas and paper in the place of the formerly smeared pain, I can create something beautiful.

If not, it isn't really a big deal. My most beautiful creation is right in front of me, and I am pretty sure he is hungry again.