Sunday, April 1, 2012

A is for Apron

(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.


  1. Oh dear lord, in my mind I was unintentionally replacing meat apron with meat curtains. *shakes my head*

    1. Oh my. That's a line I promise never to cross. Ever.

  2. I was ready to comment and this ^ caught my eye... AHAHAHAHA!! Anyway... back to my comment...
    Apart from the slight sick feeling in my tummy from hearing the words meat apron before breakfast, this was a sweet post. Strong work for committing to the A-Z challenge! Love Elle xo

  3. Ha! Now I kind of want to name mine too.

  4. I know not of this meat apron tummy thing of which you speak. However, my back fat is named Rebecca. I forget she's there unless I glance backward in the mirror, and then it is like that neighbor you don't really like, the one who steals your parking spot-- oh, yeah, YOU again. Go away now Rebecca.


  5. It also gives the kids something to rub other than your boobs, which is nice.

  6. I'm very glad I'm not the only one who names her pannus. I am also still reeling a little bit from the whole "meat apron" thing. Completely unexpected when I saw the title of the post. Magnificent! My daughter asked me why my belly was still big even though her baby brother was on the outside and I told her I needed that fat to snuggle my babies and make baby milk. A few days later, the hubs was stretching and she poked him in the belly and asked "Do you make baby milk, too?"

  7. I have not named mine--and it might need TWO names, since it's large enough to be conjoined twins, but that's another issue altogether--but I have had several dreams in which it/they featured prominently. I love your outlook.