It would be nice to be a Hollywood star, with a personal trainer, a personal chef, and maybe a plastic surgeon on staff to help me get my body back in shape after two pregnancies, but that is far beyond the constraints of my budget. I don’t have the same amount of free time for self-care.  All the personal development courses I used to take have fallen by the wayside.  My post-baby body hasn’t rebounded as quickly or as well as I had hoped, either.  Fortunately, however, I have my children to help me rebuild my self-esteem.

My five year old son likes to have contests, which produce one winner, one loser, and no one in between.  While I am not a big proponent of Participation Trophies or always praising everything they do, getting his seat belt buckled before I can buckle his little sister in and get around  to his side of my car does not feel like a win-lose type of contest.  Or worthy of his “You Lose!” song, which doesn’t contain many more lyrics than repeated statements about me losing and him winning and a ton of finger pointing.

“Mommy, I am little, my sister is little, and you are big!”  Thanks, son.  I know, at five, “big” is not an insult, but it hits on the pregnancy weight I never lost.  Weight which would have been appropriate had my daughter’s birth weight been twenty pounds, the amniotic fluid five, and her placenta another five.

Also, he is thoroughly convinced that he is much stronger than I am.  No, at five, he is not yet stronger than I am.  One day, he will be.  But not today. And when that day comes I will be the mother looking at her son towering over her and I will be repeating the famous phrase, “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out!”

Then, there is my two-year-old daughter.  She recently followed me into my bathroom, as she does most days, fascinated by what I was doing sitting on the toilet.

“A poop?’ she enquired, with genuine excitement, trying to peer behind me into the bowl.

For some reason, channeling a Hugh Grantish British tinge to my voice, “No, sorry.  Just pee.”

“No poop?” she repeated, clearly disappointed that I had led her on, obviously a cruel parental bait and switch situation.

“No, sorry.”

With a small growl of disappointment, she walked in front of me, and stared at my crotch.  “Ah, YUCK!” she exclaimed, pointing in case I was unsure of her reference, and stomped out.

No need for self-help books, therapy, or a visit to Dr. Phil; my children are all over building their Mom up!

 

 

 

Photo Credit Jamiesrabbits on Flickr.  Thank you for the use of your awesome image!