When Mom Jeans happen to good people

It was a day like any other. I threw on a pair of relatively recently purchased pair of jeans then a top, then I glanced in the mirror. You can imagine my horror when I realized I was wearing (gasp!) MOM JEANS!

Jeepers!* When did I start wearing Mom Jeans? I had to take a second look to be sure, but it was true. I was wearing high-waisted, butt-flattening, might-as-well stamp "I drive a Mini Van"** on the ass MOM JEANS!!

The worst of it was when I was standing in line to board a plane a few weeks later and there was a 60-year-old woman in line in front of me, and she had my jeans on!! I should not be wearing the same clothes that women 20 years my senior are wearing! How did this happen? HOW?!

Oh, yeah, the muffin top. The muffin top is where it all began.

The thing is, after Laney was born, I clung to the notion that 'by this time next year' I'd be back to my pre-pregnancy weight and shape. I wasn't going to spend a dime on BIG jeans when I would surely lose all of the baby weight. I am was a big believer in the ten months up, ten months down line of thinking of pregnancy weight gain and loss. Of course, it was easy to be smug a believer when I lost the baby weight the first time within that obnoxious little deadline. This time the months came and went and I was still the same weight. Now, it's officially two years later and I'm a few, ehem, pounds from my goal.

Of course, I still believe I can reach my goal. Apparently, I believe I can reach it by sitting on my big ole rump in front of the computer. . .but that's a whole different post.

As unattractive as Mom Jeans are, they keep the extra pooches tucked up where they should be. The cute jeans don't look so cute when your belly is drooping over the front of them. I have--no! please make it not true--a Mom Jeans kind-of-shape, and I need to get used to it. It's hard to come to terms with the body that two little ones have wreaked havoc on.

In the meantime, I'll cling to that little dream that I'll one day be able to wear my pre-pregnancy jeans. Nevermind that by that time they'll be out of fashion and highly inappropriate for a woman my age -- just like the hoochie shoes and mini skirts I've shipped halfway around the world to collect dust in the closet. Seriously, when am I going to wear those again? Chasing my kids down the grocery store aisles? Or maybe while vacuuming the house and watering the plants? Actually, I won't need to water the plants. They're dead. I have a black thumb. But perhaps on a wild night out scrapbooking with the neighborhood women?

Well, we all know that's not the point. The POINT is that I can pretend to be nonchalant when I'm gloating to everyone, friends, neighbors, innocent passersby, that I can wear my pre-pregnancy jeans and implying that I've never looked better. (Just ignore the crow's feet please. And the sagging boobs and skin.)

*No, what I really thought/said was, "What the fucking hell?" For the most part, I'm trying to keep the profanity to a minimum on this blog. It's doesn't have to be G-rated, but I don't have to curse like a sailor either. The word Jeepers has never actually left these lips, but I had to put something there to convey my shock and horror.

** I don't drive a mini-van. Gas is too expensive in Norway. We drive a station wagon! Sexy!