Don’t burn your stomach flub on the iron.

Before you read, this post is NOT meant to belittle anyone of any shape or size. Every human being is beautiful! This blog entry just strives to boost the confidence of women who may struggle with their post pregnancy bodies. I know I do. Now, get to readin’, and don’t forget your humor.


Flub, flub, flubby, flub. It sounds like a cute, playful word, right?

NO. It’s not. Actually, the word can kiss it.

I’m a mom of two. I have stomach flub. I may weigh less now than I did in college because I have to share every dadgum bite I try to eat, but I have stomach flub. I’m afraid it’s here to stay, too. Dadgummit. I know what you’re thinking.

Just go work out if it bothers you that much.

That’s what I used to tell my mom, who had four kids and a full-time job, when she complained about her flub. Just pop in the gym after school or walk outside in the neighborhood. How hard could it be?

Mom, I’m totally eating those words.

Like, gagging and choking on them. I understand now.

Have you ever tried to run around the block with a 26 pound baby strapped to you or take an ankle-biting toddler who has to examine every speck of dirt and bug along the way?

Also, do you have the TIME to run around the block with a 26 pound baby strapped to you or take an ankle-biting… know?

Now you must be thinking, how about a gym membership?

Well, then I have to pay for a babysitter and the membership. See? It’s a vicious, time-sucking circle to just go work out when you have littles at home.

Next, I’m going to complain about the “mom-kinis” I wear now instead of that banging, beautiful two-piece suit locked away in my drawer. It just mocks me. It reminds me of the in shape body I don’t have anymore.

Ironing is now a painful chore, as if it wasn’t bad enough because, well, just use your imagination. I might as well just iron those tiny baby clothes directly on my flub because my belly just pushes the board out of reach anyway. I’ll have a burn mark either way, so.

I can’t do hot pants and crop tops. Well, I never did do hot pants and crop tops, actually. Once upon time, I could pull it off, though. Now? That’s just laughable.

I have to do a freaking Kung Fu maneuver to squeeze the stomach flub out of my son’s room at night so the door doesn’t reach the point where it squeaks and wakes him. Side note: add WD-40 to the Walmart list. You may have flub but, girl, you can pick up that can and your groceries at the curb now. Leave those kids locked in their seats and let the associate load the car. There’s always a silver-lining.

I’m certainly going to complain about wishing my old body back, but

I’ll accept the stomach flub. Here’s why.

I’ve got little arms that wrap around it when they want to cuddle. It just feels like a hug that’s extra big and extra tight, and that’s just extra special. I may not like the extra baggage, but I want that extra love. Extra – I guess that’s the word of the day.

I’ll embrace the dadgum stomach flub. It represents my pregnancies and the birth of my children.

It doesn’t change you on the inside either. Well, it does.

You love bigger and harder and more fiercely.

Also, it doesn’t change how people view you. If it does, sucker punch them in the schnoz. They need some manners, and they need Jesus. The people that really matter in your life could care less about what you look like.

And, husbands/significant others, you probably do anyway, but always tell your lady

she’s beautiful

and mean it – even if she does have a few extra pounds that won’t go away. Besides, you actually had something to do with this!

She needs to hear it often in this season of wiping little tushes and wearing spit up, not makeup. You have more to love, after all. Wink, wink. Bow-chicca-wow-wow!

Ok, back to being PG.

So, you can work out (and clean your house – see my other post, The mess will be there later. Your kids won’t.) when you’re older and the littles are grown. You may not know your name or what year it is or some other old fart issue, but you’ll have your time.

Take your cane with you on the treadmill. Ain’t no shame in that. Hell, strut with it, and go on wit’ yo bad self. Just don’t take your wheelchair. That totally defeats the purpose.

Old farts, please don’t be offended, and I hope you have a sense of humor. I have stomach flub, and I’ll be an old fart one day soon, too.

Stomach flub, I guess you’re OK. You shielded and protected my growing baby in the womb. Now, you shield and protect me from growing boys who like to DDT their mother in the living room. I’ll have the time to take care of you later. Until then, meet my friend, Spanx.



P.S. – Old farts, schnoz means nose. Stay hip, don’t break a hip. Nothin’ but love…