I was putting on a pair of pants when I heard a gurgling noise. It was my belly. It wasn’t hungry. It was mad.
Then I heard a voice. Abdomens don’t speak, but it was, and it had a lot to say. I sat down and listened because it’s not everyday you hear your parts talking.
Listen woman, I’m sick as shit with you shoving me in things that don’t fit. Please stop jamming my rolls into a size we aren’t. I can’t breathe. That’s why I hang over the top of your pants. I’m like a dog in a car with it’s head out the window. Panting. Hahaha, get it pant-ing (my stomach also has as a sense of humour.)
Wear stuff that fits, preferably stretchy. Style us up in more dresses or overalls where I can be free all day. And, OMG, if you stuff me in Spanx one more time I will kill you in the night.
Stop being so angry with me. You know I can hear you, right? I’m inside, it echoes. All the hate and judging you spew at me is obnoxious.
I’m in the room when you ask others if I’m making you look fat. Like it’s a bad thing. Get over it. Fat is what it is – keeping me warm.
Have you forgotten what I did for you? Besides letting you pierce my button back in the nineties (asshole), I held all those babies tight.
You never asked me. You just expected it.
I was proud to be more than a food bag. One day, I started getting bigger and I just went with it. Stretching, itching, cramping, and cradling the kids. I showed up for you. Three times!
In case you forgot, they weren’t tiny children. The first was nine and a half pounds, the middle a pound more, and lastly eleven. Eleven pounds. Are you kidding me? Silent cheers when you decided he was the completion to our family. Honestly, I wasn’t hoping to be a national sensation if you went for twelve.
You used to rub and caress me. Everyone would stare and love me up. It was so nice showing off. I have attention issues too you know. Why do you think I held on for 2 weeks longer than you wanted. You fought me with squats, membrane stripping, water bag breaking and fuck you, castor oil. I had to taste that shit too (totally uncalled for).
Remember when you slathered me up with a belly cast? Hanging it on the wall, you were proud of me. Then the time Neveah painted on my stretched canvas when Bracken was hanging tight inside? It tickled. Belly to masterpiece. I was art.
With Bodhi growing, you let the kids kiss and play me like a drum. They would sing songs to the baby. It’s moments like those which make your hate so confusing.
I saw the babies first. I watched them grow, making sure all systems were in check. We lost one, early on. I was sad for me too. It hurt. I know.
Oh, I have been with you the whole time.
For the last five years you’ve been pretty upset with my looks. Triggering me back to the Frosh 15 meltdown. I discovered gravy and fries, sorry it felt so right.
Crying in the change room when we went from a size 27 to a 30 was a little dramatic. Can’t just snap your fingers and expect me to shrink after a year of feasting. I held on, because you were being so rude!
You need to know I hate crunches as much as you. Don’t force me to be different. I’m not going to be like any other belly. I’m yours. Created perfect just for your body. So turn a blind eye and stop swearing under your breath at the gals with flat abs. It’s judging no matter what angle you see them from.
If it wasn’t for me you’d be dead. I save you everyday, taking what you eat and sharing the goods with the rest of your system. P.S. I’m not impressed with the amount of wine you bring in sometimes, and I kick it out. If you don’t know the limit I will be loud about it. Sorry.
Enough is enough. If you suck me in one more time, I will revolt. I’ll bloat up like the hot air balloon I look like. Keep bitching to me and I will gas up and let loose from both ends the next time you’re in a tightly packed elevator. Don’t push me.
Be OK with me. And the rest of your whole. Your chin is sick of being called a double double and your boobs shrunk after breastfeeding because, holy shit, it wasn’t easy milking three huge babies.
If your thighs hear the word “thunder” one more time they will quit. Yes quit. You’ll be standing one minute, and the next – boom -flat on the ground.
Don’t shoot the messenger, it’s just we’re all sick of your back talk, Missy. Try to appreciate the good we do.
I just want you to wear bikinis so when we swim I can feel the cool water. Grab a cut off top and let the sun shine on me. Without calling me pasty. And if someone asks if your pregnant just say no, and not cry later.
It’s exhausting to hide and feel your shame.
Go pick on your ass for once. She has junk and gets called bootylicious. I harvest life and then get in trouble. Not fair. I’m big and I’m not going anywhere, anytime soon.
Also this ranting makes me hungry. So grumble rumble, get me a sandwich. NOW.
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