I stare into the mirror and frown slightly while tracing the curves of my new body shape.
“Sweetheart, do you think I’m fat?”
My husband answers in careful trepidation.
“You are beautiful honey… I love you”
I smile a bit because his answer is so rehearsed, so careful and EXACTLY what I needed to hear.
“But my boobs are sagging and look at all the stretch marks… maybe I should go with Mui’s remedy? And see this?” as I point to my flabby tummy, “I’ve been doing sit-ups EVERY single day and it still looks like a tub of lard!”
“You are beautiful honey… I love you”
As he scurries off to the kitchen. I turn around to the girl who is responsible for making me feel so insecure about my physical looks.
“Young lady, if only you knew mummy when I was 49kg and had a six pack! Boy… was I hot then!”
The 3-month old lass coos and gurgles at the sound of my voice. Her toothless grin makes me stop short of being cross with her. I pick her up and hold her close to my heart.
“Mummy has a fat bum, a fat bum, a fat bum… mummy has a fat bum with sagging breasts to boot!” (sung to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb)
My husband walks in with a bowl of cornflakes.
“Can’t you sing to a normal nursery rhyme? And perhaps you shouldn’t walk around naked in front of her.”
I raise one eyebrow at him.
” Dude. If I hadn’t gotten my way of a planned C-Section, Isobel would have gone out through my vagina. Besides, we both share the same sex organ!”
My husband knows not to mess with me when I call him “dude”.
“You are beautiful honey… I love you” and he disappears to add more milk into his bowl.
I place her back inside her crib and walk to my walk-in closet.
I pick up my size 24 jeans and turn to look at my expanded ‘prominent’ posterior.
I am no fashion guru, but I do know the rule of thumb. Flaunt the good, hide the bad.
I fold the jeans back and put on my yoga pants.
I think to myself, “Well, at least it’s the Adidas Stella McCartney range… if I can’t walk out with nice figure hugging clothes; I will wear baggy, casual comforts in style!”
I plonk myself on the sofa and my husband joins me. “You look nice today. Gym again?”
I sighed.
I’ve been wearing sweatpants and t-shirts ever since she was born. Those who knew Daphne Iking before would naturally think I was off to the gym every single day, right after every single shoot or event. You see, sweatpants to me, pre-pregnancy, were ONLY used for gym or for a long-hauled flight. Or maybe a quick run to the market nearby.
So the truth was, the reliable sportswear was comfortable and hid my flaws, my insecurities. I’d be a complete poser if it weren’t for the fact that I hired a (strict) personal trainer to buff me up so at least gym came into the equation 3 times a week.
“No gym today sweetheart…”
“Ahhh… so it is poser day today?” he winks.
Lina, my maid, brings our freshly bathed daughter to the living room and I reach out to hold her. I take a long whiff at her baby breath and gaze into those happy, dark greyish brown eyes of hers. Hubby snuggles in closely and embraces his two girls.
At the corner of my eye, I see my protruding tummy and feel slight discomfort on
(stupidly) donning my pre-pregnancy g-strings (spare me the lecture on wearing tight undergarments – I’m just in denial!)
I adjust the wedgie and play with my girl’s hair. She snorts back which tickles her parents.
“Oh Isobel! I’m just a mummy who is trying to love her new body shape”
She buries her head in between my breasts as if she were to comfort me.
My husband wraps his arm around my shoulder and says the magical words.
“You are beautiful… I love you” he says to both Isobel and myself.
Feeling the tenderness in the air, I kiss him on the cheek. This time around, I believe him.
