Friday, December 4, 2009

On the Mommy Belly...

Ah, yes. The Mommy Belly. Can I hear a collective “Ugh?” And while I assume it needs no further introduction, for those of you in the dark about this regrettable, postpartum phenomenon, it is the “little bundle” that remains after giving birth to your “little bundle.” A search on Google will return nearly two million entries related to The Mommy Belly. YouTube offers approximately six thousand videos featuring The Mommy Belly, and the online Urban Dictionary has dubbed it important enough to provide an official entry and related pop culture reference which I can only assume is from a movie in the same league as SuperBad: “Besides the mom belly, your mother’s pretty smokin’.”

We’re all familiar with the expression, “motherhood is a blessing and a curse.” Well I think it’s clear onto which side The Mommy Belly falls in that comparison. And no one is safe. I have a very tall, naturally slender friend who was lifting her shirt and complaining about her Mommy Belly at a recent playdate, which by all standards was nothing to write home about, but a Mommy Belly nevertheless. (Husbands, if you’re wondering what exciting things happen at these playdates, that's pretty much it. And yes, afterward we all have a pillow fight.)

I’m not sure if it’s because our mothers were simply too genteel to mention this unmentionable, or because women are waiting until they’re older to have kids these days, but the girth of The Mommy Belly buzz appears to have expanded substantially in recent years, and somewhere along the line even become a proper noun. It’s the layered look that’s never in fashion and the reason Spanx has taken off like a rocket.

It happens to be on the top of my holiday to-do list because I’ve spent the better part of the year and countless numbers of sit-ups, crunches and endless miles desperately trying to slough it off. But no matter what I do, there it is with a maniacal snicker, wondering why I’m working so hard. Nobody told me that after Jack and Cameron had abandoned their temporary home, I’d be left with a permanent vacancy. I imagine at this point, I should just put a “for rent” sign up and see if I get any takers. All I know is that I can’t bear to read one more ridiculous article about a celebrity who claims they’ve gotten back into their pre-pregnancy, sexy two-piece bathing suit by logging ad nauseam hours of Pilates. I wish they’d just cut to the chase and give us the name of their doctor.

I can’t believe it’s December already, although I don’t know why I’m surprised, the Christmas stuff has been out since Easter. ‘Tis the season for holiday parties and clingy dresses that need to navigate my postpartum relief map. My ultimate wish is that it’s the very last year I spend hours in multiple dressing rooms trying to find the perfect and keenly strategic black dress. Because after a year-long tug-of-war with the treadmill and various and sundry other quibbles with core based exercises, I’m convinced that the only way to cut The Mommy Belly out of my life is to literally “cut” it out of my life.

Santa, are you listening? All mommy wants for Christmas is a tummy tuck and a belly button that doesn’t look like the tied end of a balloon a week after the party’s over.