There comes a point in each pregnancy where my body image issues start to get out of control. I become very aware that I’m going to balloon and I start to freak out once I start seeing signs of it happening.
I can’t remember when the it all started. For better or worse, I didn’t use to care much about how I looked, as was evident from my childhood photos. Browsing the old photos albums, also evident was the fact that my folks didn’t care much about how I looked either. For the entire duration of my primary school life, I was basically known for my ridiculous specs and let’s just say that for an 8-year-old who is not Harry Potter, thick round plastic specs is the equivalent of sartorial suicide. But I wore it with pride because I was more concerned about being able to see clearly than how I was being seen.
Along the way though, those body image issues came creeping in and once they did, there was no turning back. That list has been steadily growing till this very day.
Let’s see, we’ve got:
The eyebrows. If left unattended to, they will stop existing in the plural form and grow into one singular eyebrow stretching across my face.
Crazy hair that does not listen to reason or hair products.
Cheeks that are prone to chubbiness. Chubby cheeks are cute to have at 3, but not so much at 30 and yet somehow, any additional weight I put on seems to find its way straight to my face.
Athletic calves. Some might call them stumpy. I prefer to call them muscular.
Giant feet. My feet are about the same size as the husbands’ so…that’s sexy.
Child bearing hips. It might have been considered hot once upon a time in ancient China but they’re not so good when you’re attempting to put on a pair of skinny jeans in 2014 Singapore.
A post-baby tummy that does not seem to go away no matter how many crunches I do. Which is mostly none.
Last weekend, I was trying to fit into my jeans while peering at my ass from 15 different angles to ascertain if it has gotten bigger. I’m fairly certain that it has. That colossally sucks. As I was wallowing, Kirsten burst into the room to show me her new hairband. I know because she said, “Mom, see my new hairband!” Then without skipping a beat, she said, “wah, you look so pretty” before turning around and walking right out.
I felt pretty good about myself for the rest of the day.
So the ass might gotten a little bigger but body image issues can kiss my um… you know, because my baby girl sees the good parts and those are the parts I should be looking at too.
It’s the prerogative of every parent to think that their kid is a rockstar, which is something I do quite a bit even though the husband has pointed out repeatedly that my mommy-coloured glasses is in fact, interfering with my vision.
Seriously, look at this little champ show off some fancy footwork. He haven’t even mastered walking steadily without falling all over the place but little dude seems to know his way around a ball.
The husband is so chuffed that he’s working it with his teensy weensy feet instead of picking up the ball with his hands and running away with it like Truett & Kirsten used to.
PS. Notice how I’ve refrained from talking about the state of soccer this season because watching the premier league as a Man Utd fan has been causing me actual physical pain.
PPS. Why I persist in watching week after week is beyond me.
Since I found out I was pregnant, I’ve been waiting and waiting for the second trimester to arrive. I’ve marked down the date, added tiny pink hearts, some smiley faces and I’m more excited about its arrival than I was on christmas morning. And you all know how excited I get on christmas morning.
That date has come and gone and…nothing. I feel exactly the same. It’s like waiting for santa to arrive (I even prepared milk! cookies!) and he finally does and he comes with a big fat bag of not a single thing.
Where’s my extra energy? My ability to eat without puking? My regular non-constipated self?
So that’s been a bummer. One of these days I’m going to wake up and remember what it’s like to properly enjoy a juicy piece of steak but clearly, that day is not today.
I think baby Finn suspects that I’m pregnant and that his days as the baby of the family are numbered. I did tell him as much on several occasions but I was never really sure that he was paying much attention. I need to have a word with him about taking me seriously. In any case, I think he’s getting it, thus the onset of a sticky baby phase. Or it could be that he’s just entering the sticky phase all on his own. Either way, he’s milking his babyness for all it’s worth.
Some days, his sticky phase means coming to me and resting his head on my chest for no reason at all (awesomest feeling in the world – sticky phase please don’t go away!) but other days, he grabs my ankles and gets all frenzied in his meltdown zone (sticky phase, I can be so done with you like now).
I just made a deal with him that he gets to be a baby for the next 6 months but then he’s got to step up by the time Hailey arrives. He doesn’t look too enthusiastic about the idea but I think he gets it.