It’s been a little over a month since I gave birth and I’ve come to realize my weight has hit a plateau. We went to the beach this past week and my suitcase contained 4 pairs of leggings, 3 sweatshirts, a few oversized T-shirt’s, and 1 swimsuit that is so tight it turns into a thong every time I try to walk. Trust me I know, “I just had a baby” and there’s no use being hard on myself. Folks, I’ve read the articles, the ones that tell me to embrace my new postpartum body and guess what? I didn’t learn a darn thing. 

I don’t want to embrace this new body. If I embrace this new body, everything in my closet will have to go straight to goodwill. If I embrace this new body I will spend hundreds of dollars buying a new wardrobe. If I embrace this new body I will be winded chasing Grafton around. If I embrace this new body I will be forced to lay Eleanor down and miss the baby snuggles. 

Im not saying my body isn’t amazing, because it is, it carried my two beautiful children. I’m also not saying the cellulite across my thighs isn’t attractive, because those thighs pace across the room every night bouncing a baby and rocking a toddler. And I’m especially not saying my new stretch marks aren’t awesome, because they are, I earned them, they are a sign of strength. 

I love my postpartum body because it was home to my children for 18 months of my life. But is it wrong to want my old one? I want the one that chased Grafton down hallways in our home without getting winded. I want the one that rocked a leather jacket and ripped jeans on my 29th birthday and felt cool as hell. I want the one that my husband was able to wrap his arms around at night without me swatting him away. 

So cheers to my old body and my pursuit to get it back. Im not doing this for you readers, or for Garrett, or friends or family, but for me. I’m doing this for me. 

Go kale or go home.