(Inspired by some fellow bloggers, I'm going to give the A to Z Challenge a go. I am sorely lacking in the motivation department right now, unless it's motivation to do stuff like sit around and eat chocolate chips, so I'm hoping this might be a kick in the pants.)
I can see it swinging beneath me. I'm on my hands and knees in my underwear and bra, picking up tiny pieces of glass from a shattered bottle of hot pink nail polish. I see the shadow of something, pendulous and dark, like a couple of grapefruits in a pair of pantyhose. It sways gently, rhythmically, keeping time to the movements of my arms and my steady breath. While I am aware of it's presence, I do not glance toward it. I am not afraid, for I know it too well.
It is the Meat Apron.
"That's not normal, naming your gut."
"But it's not a gut, it's a flappy pannus. It's an entity unto itself. Plus, guys name their penises."
"Totally different," the Husband says. "Guys name their penises because, well, because. People don't name their belly fat."
So he says. The Meat Apron is a unhappy side effect of three children via c-section, and an unwillingness to do horrible things like sit ups, or surgery.
"Plus," I say to him, "What happens if we get caught in a snowstorm or some Lord of the Flies type situation? You'll be happy to have the Meat Apron around then."
"What do you mean? Oh, jeez. You're not suggesting..."
"Sure, cut that fucker off and I can keep the whole family alive for a few days at least."
With a pre-puke hitch in his voice he says, "You are cracked."
I hate it, but it's part of me, and likely will be in varying degrees all my life. It is generally Spanx-able, and visible in all it's glory only to the people who love me most. The people who couldn't care less if I'm carrying around a toolbelt made of skin.
I was wrestling with the kids today, and stopped to rest. Julia laid her head on my chest and, in the highly inappropriate way of five year olds, began rubbing my boob. "Don't rub Mommy's boobies, honey," I said, and moved her hand to my stomach. She started rubbing and kneading my stomach like she was working on a loaf of dough. I laughed and asked her what she was doing.
"I just love you, Mommy. You are soft and warm."
The Meat Apron brings comfort and joy to my child. How can I hate something that does that? Not to mention the whole keep the family alive in the wilderness survival thing.
Huzzah, Meat Apron. You serve me well.
2 weeks ago