Ain't What You Used To Be...

I will be the first to stand up and thank the female body for all it can do. It gives and sustains life, which pretty much sums up one big feat of awesome. A woman's body can be pushed to the brink, will experience major wear and tear, and all the while, she's being asked what's for dinner. Women are some hard-core folk, for real.

With that being said, I'd like to make a formal complaint about the dysfunctions my body has suffered even two and a half years after having my last kid. (To those of you who are pregnant or considering it, I know this is painful now. No one wants to hear the ugly truth, but you'll thank me later when you can expertly explain to your husband why your nose seems to have grown in size. And to my homegirls out there who've been there, done that...I raise my fist in solidarity to you.)

This past Christmas, I unwrapped a pair of the most gorgeous cowboy boots. I suppose I wasn't totally surprised to receive them, considering all my shameless hinting and sighing when I'd pull on my old ones. But I digress...the point is that the hubby did good. Real good. I inhaled the new-leather smell and admired the color and design. Never mind the fact that these boots were one full size larger than my last pair. I was well-aware that after Body Wrecker #1 was born, my feet had grown longer and wider. Sexy. But I'd had time to come to terms with this unfortunate turn of events. These boots were going to kill with dresses, jeans, shorts, skirts...anything! That's the mark of a good pair of boots. They become your wardrobe's new bestie. 

A few days after the whirlwind of Christmas subsided, I found myself sorting through my loot. There in the box, being such patient girls, were my new boots. It was time for them to make their debut! I braced myself for the tears that might very well come from the sight of myself looking so fine...it wasn't quite fair to the rest of humanity. These boots and I were going places! I slid on the right one and it was pure magic. It fit exactly the way a girl wants a boot to fit...all the right curves in all the right places. As I began to pull the left one on, something felt...different. Tighter. I pulled harder and then stood up. My foot, however, was not actually resting inside the boot...it was preforming more of a hovering maneuver. It seemed my calf had caused a sort of traffic jam. It looked like the boot was giving my calf a muffin-top. And it hurt! The leather was squeezing my leg, as if trying to purge itself of my grotesque elephantine limb.

I gasped as I ripped the boot off my throbbing leg and threw it across the room. What witchcraft was this? I inspected my left calf which, by all appearances, was a normal calf. Sure, I had cankles. This wasn't new information. I'd always been on the cankle spectrum, but with Body Wrecker #2, they had definitely progressed to a more advanced case. Why, though, was one calf more...pronounced than the other? Was I doomed to walk the earth in a pair of Birkenstocks the rest of my life?

It took weeks for me to say anything to the hubby. I was mortified. He has the slender, shapely calves of a sixteen year old girl. He'd never understand. But no matter how badly I wanted to hide Monster Calf, I knew I needed to return the boots. They weren't cheap and he'd be pretty ticked to find them collecting dust in the back of my closet. Finally one afternoon, I confessed the whole sordid affair. Ever the problem-solver, he asked to see my...situation, firsthand. "I think what happened is that I got you the skinny-legged version of the boots. I'm sorry." Well you had to admire his creativity. Not that I bought it one bit. He's a sweetheart, I'll give him that. But I knew my body had become a walking freak show and the circus would surely be calling.

We returned the boots with the explanation that they "just weren't the right fit". Hello, Understatement of the Year. For the next hour, I pouted as I tried on boots, many of which posed the same problem as the original pair. Several times, I quickly pulled my jeans down over Monster Calf as the salesman came to check on me. No more eyes need be subjected to such horror. Finally I decided on a pair that was tolerable. They fit and were pretty enough, but clearly no boot would ever look the same on me again.

Most days, I look at myself and think, "Ok, you ain't what you used to be, but it still works". I've made peace with the stretchmarks and wide feet. I can handle the dirty dish-water hair color that used to be a lovely shade of blonde. Even Monster Calf and her Cankle Crew just seem like part of the deal. It's fine, I can live with it. There are plenty of motherly chores just waiting to take my mind off the whole ugly thing. Some days, though, I feel quite resentful. I signed up for this gig, thinking I was handing over my body for nine months. How has nine months turned in to several years? When do I get my body back as my own? On the scale of fairness, this whole thing ranks really stink'n low.

But then there are these brilliant days where I really take the time to look into my kids' eyes and am just absolutely blown away. I see a boy with the most delicious brown eyes and a laugh so joyous you kind of want to cry from the beauty of it. I see a girl with strawberry-blonde pigtails and a pout that makes you want to kiss all over her chubby little cheeks. In these creatures who I grew and carried and nursed and held, I see my very best self. This version of myself loves more fiercely, works harder, and cheers more loudly. The chips on the paint? They are physical evidence of the journey I've been on...still am on...as a mom.

(A mom who now has a healthier respect for the almighty flipflop, I might add.)