In Praise of Mom Jeans

And so, internet, the time has come for some reflections on my post-partum body. It is different. I suppose this should come as no surprise.

I was never a skinny girl, but I used to be roughly average size, clothing sized medium, although pear-shaped and five foot three, which is a tricky combination. I managed, partly by wearing heels pretty much all the time to make my legs longer. Even writing that makes me sort of confused. Heels, really? It seems so foreign; you might as well tell me I used to wear pearls while I vacuumed, like Donna Reed. But there you go.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand: my new body. Sadly, it's not one of those "new bodies" like C-list celebrities on the cover of People Magazine are always getting, with the toned arms and the bikini and whatnot. Alas, no.

Having a baby has not made me taller, and it has certainly done nothing to revise my proportions in a positive direction, so now I'm still pear-shaped, still five-three, heel-less, and exactly two pounds heavier than before. Long after their cohorts have departed, these two pounds have been holding on stubbornly, like a pair of flabby jellyfish clinging to my belly.

Two pounds doesn't sound like much, but they seem to be made of some kind of miracle fat that redistributes all the other fat on my whole body. My butt seems fatter, my gut seems fatter, even my chin has ballooned downward a bit. My old pants definitely do not fit. In the interest of my self-esteem, I have stopped trying to put them on.

I keep reading blogs written by fitter women than I, and feeling odd pangs of regret that I'm only getting to the gym for a pleasant workout a few times a week. I have toyed with the idea of getting in shape for a 5K, and then followed that idea exactly nowhere. The truth is, I just don't mind my post-partum body that much. Maybe this is how the long slide into age and infirmity begins? I don't know--right now I am not getting enough sleep in the average 24-hour period to lose any of it over the condition of my gut.

Hence, the fact that I seem to have settled in and stopped fighting my post-partum body has resulted in some predictable but nonetheless somewhat sad accommodations in my wardrobe. To wit: I am wearing mom jeans. Here is a sampling of the waistbands that greet me from the pants drawer each morning:


In case you can't read the labels, let me translate. There on top we have some Bermuda shorts in a style called "mid-rise curvy." That's a nice way of saying there's extra room for your butt. The second selection is a pair of Lees with something called a "comfort waistband." This is pretty much what it sounds like--these look like plain old mom jeans from the outside, but when you put them on they somehow feel like sweatpants. Sweatpants with pockets.

My world? It is rocked. These are futuristic miracle pants.

I used to have jeans that didn't cover my belly button, internet, but that was when I used to have abdominal muscles. Now? It is time to raise the denim flag of surrender. I tried to resist the siren song of elasticized waistbands, but alack, I am weak. You know how on Star Trek it always looks so cozy the way the characters run around in some kind of tailored polyester pajamas all day long? My friends, the future is upon us.

Oh, but wait, it gets worse. Behold the shoes:


Yes, those are Crocs. They are the faux-ballet-flat Crocs, rather than the clown-shoe crocs, but I don't harbor any self-deceptions. I wear plastic shoes. LOTS of plastic shoes. And I own them in a variety of neutral colors, so I can wear plastic shoes pretty much every day. Not only do they give my clumsy self good traction for walking around the house with a baby on one hip and a laundry basket on the other, but on my wood floors they make no noise. Sorry, heels. Naps are sacrosanct around here.

Also, the closed toes allow me to neglect my pedicure. What can I say? I work from home.

And, in case you thought there was any remaining daylight between my wardrobe and that of a comfort-loving septegenarian, I give you the grand finale, the masterwork, the piece de resistance. Internet, I have traded in my bikini for one of those heavily elasticized one-piece bathing suits from Land's End that might as well be a coral spandex chastity belt.


This takes ten minutes and a shoehorn to get on, because the...what's the word? girdly? fabric is so very firm it doesn't readily stretch when you step into it. But once it's on, nothing jiggles. Ever. It's like Wonder Woman's steel bustier, this suit. Bullet-repelling bangle bracelets and lasso of truth unfortunately not included.

So, internet, there you go. All it took was a baby and two lousy pounds to turn me into Betty White. If you need anything, I'll be catching the early bird special down at the MCL Cafeteria. I hear the banana pudding there is divine.