I was getting dressed for our weekend excursion in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Trying as best I could to hide my 20 months postpartum body and its roadmap of bumps and ripples and a gigantic crater of a belly button. There’s no denying, the 40 pounds I gained when pregnant with Abby hasn’t moved much on its own since. I keep thinking I’ll buckle down and get strict with a diet and exercise routine as soon as she stops breastfeeding, because right now I justify all the ice cream I consume by saying it’s for my daughter’s own good. At the rate we’re going though, that’s never going to happen. So I remain uncomfortable in my own skin, even though I’m in awe of what it’s produced. That’s when Jedi, never one to mince words, walks in and stands behind me by the door.
“Whoa, that’s big!”, he exclaims, pointing at my flabby, stretched out stomach.
“Well, yeah.”, I concede.
He scrunches his face and wonders out loud, “How’d it get so big?”.
“It got big when I was pregnant with you and your brother and sister. Mommy’s belly has been through a lot over the years.”
“Oh,” he pauses, contemplating. “Does that mean you’re pregnant again?”
He’s lucky I love him.