Where’s the Love For the Mom Bod?

Why do dad bods get to have all the glory?

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Photo by Artem Bali via Unsplash

I made a seriously grave error once. I told a guy I was seeing that I loved dad bods and then I thought his was hot. I mean, I was into it. Whoops.

That didn’t go over so well. Apparently, this practice is frowned upon. I had missed the memo.

To be perfectly honest, he totally did have a dad bod. There was middle area squishiness and a lack of well define pecs. He’s never going to have a six pack. Those days are solidly 20 years behind him. He definitely stayed in shape by mostly doing things like hiking and swimming. You know, average, white, American, suburban, middle-aged dude things. I freaking loved how he looked and felt.

A couple days after the aforementioned slip, my boyfriend shot off a text to me asking me how I would feel if he told me that he loved my “mom bod?”

I thought about it and my response was, “Would you please tell me that you love my mom bod? For the love of God, please?” Because, man, that would cut women some serious slack and I feel like it’s well earned slack.

This mom bod has stretch marks. My daughter was a big ol’ baby and as a result, my stomach looks like I might have gotten in a fight with a bear with some pretty big claws. I want to feel like it’s okay without wanting to take a second mortgage to fix this.

I’m worried my skin’s starting to get that weird crepe-y look and feel. You know, that absence of collagen where when you move your skin it doesn’t quite move back anymore. Like it’s too tired and it can’t even.

My ass is not a migratory bird. It should not move south for the winter. Yet, it does.

My mom bod it is a byproduct of gravity.

I go to the gym every week. I hike. I try not to gorge myself on french fries and drown myself in wine. Sometimes, I want to do both of these at the same time. I refrain as much as I can. But not always.

I went to a pool party on Saturday and left the house feeling pretty good. I checked myself in the mirror in my new swimsuit from Target. Because, Target’s where all the moms who haven’t totally given up buy their swimsuits. I was feeling pretty good.

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Photo by Joseph Kellner via Unsplash

Then I got to the party and remembered that it was a birthday party for my stunning friend who is turning 31. Thirty. One. I don’t even think I remember 31. My daughter was a toddler. It’s a Cheerio laden blur.

My friend emerged from her bathroom in her beautiful swimming ensemble like a butterfly coming out of her cocoon, perfectly flat belly intact. Immediately, I felt like a moth. Good feeling gone. Oh, comparison, you are a nasty bitch!

Guys, tell us you we don’t have to look like that. We would love to, we just can’t. We need to hear this. We’re trying with our own internal monologue. A nudge would be killer.

We still want to wear bikinis. Don’t let us feel like we have to go be outcasts on Tankini Island. That place is worse than the LL Bean catalog. Jesus.

Yes. You are absolutely reading this right. Women want the equivalent of the body “participation trophy.” Fork it over.

Women with mom bods are actually pretty damn cool. We’re going to let you cheat on your diet just a little. Nothing’s going to get out of hand. But, if you really feel like splitting a dessert, we’re going to be game. Then the next day we’ll going to join you back in the world of We Really Should Eat Better. We know we live there with you.

We’re going to put on yoga pants and actually GO to yoga. But we might stop on the way home for a mimosa. It happens.

We also might put on yoga pants and skip yoga altogether. Kind of like when you guys put on basketball shorts and then never go play basketball. Just saying.

We want you guys to dig our bodies like we do. Because we are working really hard at that shit. You’re working on your self love, too. We understand. I feel like we all need to rally behind and appreciate the concept of good enough. Our bodies are showing up everyday. That should be good enough. Raise a glass.

Written by

Flaming pinball, nerd, music lover, wine snob, horrible violin player. No, I won’t stop taking pictures of my drinks. vanessaltorre@gmail.com IG: vanessaltorre

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