Loving A Post-Baby Body


Loving A Post-Baby Body
A mother of two ditches her old wardrobe and accepts her new body.

When I dreamed of having a baby, I thought it would take time to work off the weight I gained. Instead, I lost the extra 40 pounds in a few months. But my body changed in other ways: my hips widened, my breasts ballooned, fine lines marbled the pouch of loose skin on my lower abdomen. None of my clothes fit right.

Before I had time to come to grips with my new body, I was pregnant again. For almost four years, I wore an outfit that my husband affectionately dubbed my mommy uniform: comfortable jeans or cargos and a T-shirt one size too loose. The getup worked because it hid my flaws—and I never had to think about what to put on in the morning.


Around my younger girl's first birthday, I weaned her from breastfeeding, thinking it was time to reclaim my body for me and my husband. I filled garbage bags with clothes that didn't fit, discarded my pregnancy underwear and ordered some key pieces online—a few good pairs of hip-hugging jeans, the kind I have to hop a bit to get into, flirty skirts and some tank tops to replace my standard T's. I put on some matching jewelry and dug out a coral-colored alternative to my typical tube of Chapstick.

When I mentioned that I was writing an article about learning to accept my body, my husband seemed embarrassed to admit he had noticed my recent wardrobe improvements.

"I notice your body more and more lately," he said. "I look at you in what you've been wearing and see the girl I met in college—your breasts are smaller, your hips are a little thinner. It's the body I fell in love with."

Impressed by his sweetness, I wondered what he thought of the all the forms my body had taken over the course of two pregnancies. His response wasn't especially profound: "Well, you had big boobs and I thought, 'Whoa! Big boobs! I haven't seen those in forever.'"

Today, the bathroom mirror no longer reflects the boyish figure it took me two decades to make peace with. Instead, it shows a mother's body—either worked thin and tired from chasing children or bursting round and firm from growing them. But it's mine. You will not find me turning tonight's pot roast in lingerie—but you will find me at the local boutique. I'm the girl with the ponytail handing Goldfish to cherubic toddlers in a double stroller as I rifle through racks of stylish jeans and funky dresses that are just my size.

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