Chubby Mom

I wanted to be a chubby mom.

I wanted doughy arms and big bosoms and a comfortable lap to sit in.

I wanted my little nuggets to be enveloped in the soft cushion of my embrace as I squeezed them to my to my heart’s content.

These somewhat crazy aspirations were a lot easier to have when I was comfortably tucked into single-digit jeans. Yes, I’m talking about high school. It was cute then, to think of the perfect world of motherhood, of sweet little cherub children staring up at me with their big doe eyes and listening to my syrupy lullabies as I rocked them to sleep in my loaf-of-bread arms.

My opinion, however brilliant and revelatory it may have sounded, has since changed.

Nevertheless, those silly high school words must have been followed by a silent bibbity-bobbity-boo, because, viola! Here I am. Just like I wanted. Three kids and a fat ass. And now I’d give anything to be back in those tight, high-waisted Guess jeans with the zipper-down ankle instead of having to tuck in my muffin top under the front of my pants every time I sit down.

Well, I shouldn’t say I’d give anything. Would I give the leftover birthday cake? No, I need that. And the kid’s fundraising cookie dough (that will never actually make it to the oven)? I need that, too. And forget about refusing chips and salsa at the restaurant or second helpings at a dinner party or donuts at work. That’s just wrong.

I want them, but I don’t want them to make me fatter. Is that too much to ask? It is, apparently, ever since thirty came and went. And now I suppose it’s time to change the old habits. I try, believe me. I have whole conversations with myself.

“C’mon, how bad do you want to fit into those jeans?”

“Not that bad.”

“No, really. You just ate a huge meal. Don’t eat that fifth cookie.”

“Shut up.”

And then I lock the personal-trainer-voice into a closet in my brain and enjoy the cookie with my let’s-get-fat-voice in pleasant company. It’s just so much better that way. For the moment, at least. Eventually, I gotta let the trainer-voice out for some fresh air and a carrot stick.

I’m not sure how it happened without my knowing. This chubby business. I guess I just allowed myself the extra room after the birth of each child. And now it’s harder than ever, mentally and physically, to turn it around.
That is, until I see a size-two mom and suddenly remember that my gym membership is gathering cobwebs. Her iPod is strapped to her toned arm, the bounce in her step is accented by an excellent set of tanned gams, and the glow of her skin has cardio-kickboxing written all over it. She works for it, I tell myself. Don’t be mad unless you’re willing to work for it, too. After a good twelve hours of self-deprecation, I huff it out on the treadmill for two weeks, eat like a supermodel, and drop four or five pounds. To which end I totally deserve that ice cream sundae.

I’m just not cut out for the skinny life. I’m not willing to put in the effort it takes. This malarkey of spending hours on the treadmill or sweating it out in a Total Body Conditioning class is about as appealing as the “Lite Side” menu at any restaurant. It just ain’t happening.

Don’t think I’m giving up. I really don’t want to be the mom of my simple adolescent musings. But I take guilty consolation in the “at least I’m thinner than her” game I play at the grocery store or the kids’ school. I pride myself on teaching my family healthy choices and make sure they’re asleep before I binge on chocolate cake and leftover pizza. I hit the gym at regular intervals and even enjoy it once in a while.

I try not to let my size get out of hand, remembering to always be happy and comfortable, and to sport my skin like it was a size six, regardless of the number on the tag. And I keep the skinny jeans in the back of the closet for someday.