Tummy Time

When I was pregnant, I frequently walked around our house with my shirt riding up, belly out.  And not peeking out, but total belly reveal.  Tucking-my-shirt-into-the-bottom-of-my-bra belly out.  Jack was initially horrified.  He repeatedly asked me if I knew that my belly was showing, like maybe it was an accident and he thought I would be embarrassed and quickly cover up so no one could see the hugeness of my belly.  Like with my shirt down I was fooling everyone, my clothes camoflauging the human being I was carrying around.  Belly?  What belly?  Ain't no belly here.  After my response was "So????", accompanied by a dare-you-to-keep-speaking-stare only seen on the faces of third trimester pregnant ladies, I think he became resigned to the fact that his wife was going to be more hillbilly than high fashion for the next few months. One time when I was feeling less combative than usual I think I did try to explain that I just hated the feeling of anything constricting my belly, but I don't think his man brain understood.  My kids liked to come up and poke at my collection of stretch marks- the worn, silvery ones from Mason and the angry, puffy ones Ava was creating.  They were equal parts disgusted and fascinated by them.  I think all in all my whole family was glad when Ava came.

Here is the problem.  I still always want to have my belly out. It still feels constricting to have a shirt on.  I still rub my belly like I am reassuring the baby that has already left the building.  I still find myself resting a hand on it and patting it and setting food items on it.  Like my body is in denial that Baby Girl has moved out.  And all those things that were half cute and half crazy but understandable for a pregnant lady are NOT acceptable once you give birth.  Imagine seeing some 30 something lady in a grocery aisle pulling her shirt up, absentmindedly rubbing her stretch marks and patting her belly roll while she decides between rosemary garlic or chipotle.  Then she tells her belly her choice (rosemary garlic), leaves her shirt up, and heads to the freezer section to debate ice cream flavors.  THIS IS MY KITCHEN.

My poor husband.