I know you’ve just birthed a baby and I am beyond grateful for that, but you and I are currently having some differences.
You see, you want to keep hold of the fat we gained whilst growing said baby (I can only assume to keep us warm during the UK’s arctic winter), but I don’t feel comfortable with that.
I hate to say this, especially since I now have a daughter and I don’t want her to EVER worry about her weight, but I feel like you’re letting the team down – it’s like I don’t even know you anymore.
We worked so hard together to get to a point where we felt great and thought we were prepared for anything (you were clearly desperate for a baby, I could tell). But now, when I look at the sealed bin bags at the bottom of our cupboard, full of all the clothes that used to make us look good, I’m filled with longing for what we once had together. The five measly outfits that still hang above them (mostly of maternity wear) are all that we have left to try and present a decent front to the world. When I accidentally forget our predicament and put something on from the old times, the straining distance between the fabric meeting in the middle reminds me of just how much you have let me down.
But I refuse to buy anything new.
I trust you. You may not have got it right this time, but I know you’ll learn from your mistakes. We’ll work together, and though there may be bumps (or chocolate, or muffins, or food in general) along the way, we’ll ultimately come out stronger.
I’m keeping those bagged up clothes because I believe that we can be ourself again.
Until we have another baby and then we’ll just embrace the gluttony.
All my love,
Ps. I swear to God if you mention any of this to my daughter, I’ll tattoo every inch of you. Little girls have enough to worry about.