Blooming marvellous, or, whatever happened to my bikini line
March 8, 2011 § 4 Comments
A few people, although noticeably fewer than during the previous two pregnancies, have told me that I am ‘blooming.’ A very kind and slightly shortsighted person at work told me again this morning. The image of a beautiful freesia, sticky sweet with pollen, exploding voluptuously into flower, flashed briefly into my mind, only to be replaced by that of a slightly trampled upon daisy, a few petals to the worse, being mercilessly plucked by a grubby-handed toddler, and fed to the worm farm. I am, as ever, being overdramatic. But ‘blooming’? Really? Blooming tired, blooming spotty, blooming fed up, maybe. Multiple pregnancies are not kind to the female form.
I can’t remember what it was like to have a flat stomach. I mean, I know I used to have one – I found a pic of me (on the left) from an old work Xmas party during the time when my main food groups were Marly Lights and white wine. Now I indulge in whatever carbohydrate rich fayre I can get down my greedy gullet fast enough. And do I look better for it? Like hell I do.
I can’t remember what it is like to look attractive in my underwear. This morning I put on the quite pretty lacy maternity bra which had just come out of the wash, gasped for fresh air a few times, decided I was in no mood for Victorian corsetry, and made the eminently sensible yet ultimately unsexy decision to go with the large, slightly greying, yet allowing breath to enter the body, over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder.
My Other Half is extremely lovely about my growing form. Yet I couldn’t help notice him glance at the 3-pack of sensible short-briefs that were spilling out of my shopping bag yesterday. Was a small sigh slightly audible? Maybe I was imagining it. He certainly was sensible enough not to say anything.
Perhaps I could help myself feel better by spending more time on my ‘personal admin.’ But I can’t remember what it feels like to take time over beautification. Makeup consists of hurriedly applied touche éclat, a splodge of tinted moisturiser and random wave of a mascara wand in the eye direction, applied in the semi-darkness and rubbed in at some point later in the day when I realise I look like something from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Hair removal too is an activity better conducted during times of natural light. However having a small child hanging off each arm does not aid comfortable or effective depilation. Coupled with that the growing bump makes bikini hair removal challenging, and not a little dangerous. It would be ever so wrong, but it has crossed my mind, to offer reward stickers to the 3yo for holding the mirror at the right angle.
So what’s to love about pregnancy? Well, the baby, obviously. But not the impact on my body. As well as the lasting effects on outward stretchification I’m scarily aware that I may be fast-forwarding to the time I browse the aisles insouciantly pretending I’m not looking for Tena Lady. However for now, I am just really blooming grateful I haven’t developed cankles.