Putting Humpty-Dumptress back together again.

 As promised. Plumty-Dumptress’s Post Partum Pursuit of Petiteness. Probably with Pictures. Peter Piper Picked A Peck Of Pickled Peppers….Can you tell I’m sleep deprived? The new depths of wit Chez MI is liberal abuse of an innocent consonant.

……Or how I talk about my weight, body image and what having two babies really does to The State Of The Arse (I believe the State Of The Abdomen has already been covered at some length).

Alternatively entitled ‘Is attempting to put things back where they used to be the new Mission Impossible?’ 

I’ve yet to consult a magic eight ball on the matter, but I’d suspect if I did I’d get that inappropriately chirpy ‘all signs point to yes‘. Thus far.

Not to make any further references to, say, the inhalational consumption of illicit substances to aid in pleasurable personal delusions about one’s dimensions, but it would have been nice to at least think I’d dropped the last twenty-odd pounds of Bonus Chin, Horizontally Expanded Arse, Oatmeal Thighs (wraparound, no less), Tuck Shop Lady Arms a.k.a Bingo Wings and general Extra Squshiness about my person when I’d finished literally pissing away the remains of the first forty something pounds of oedema.

But no luck. The rest of my weight loss must come the hard way, and not say from the (to make a cricket reference) Shane Warne School Of Double Chin Loss. Seriously. He tried to tinkle his way out of it, and no, it didn’t work for him either.

Since the thought of adding exercise to my already hectic schedule of sleep deprivation, feeds, toxic butt changes (see: law of faecal relativity) and assorted vomitus related hijinks is enough to make me want to eat a whole pack of tim-tams and chase them down with a vat of red wine, I’m going for the other time honoured approach. Smoke and mirrors.

Oh, and all that eating sensibly crap that is so very boring. Honestly, I’ve started regarding the cardboard boxes my bland but obscenely healthy diet comes in with more than a little interest.

You see, until I reach (humour me here) my in-hindsight obscenely tiny pre-pregnancy size (if not shape), I have some serious wardrobe dilemmas. It does not benefit the self image all that much to be swanning through the supermarket in my humorously ginormous circus-tent maternity jeans after delivery.

I honestly live in fear of the day that some well meaning but suicidal village idiot asks me when I’m due.

Fortunately, a month down the track, I am just back into my largest pre-pregnancy jeans. Yes, I might need the aid of a coathanger and a good old-fashioned suck in to get them on, and yes the buttons are threatening to pop off in explosive mutiny, and YES the zipper is complaining that it was never designed for such abuse.

But. Don’t look at me like that.

It makes me feel better, so I’ll shoehorn my arse into them regardless of the stylish shrink wrap effect on the thighs and spillage over the top. I’ll just look like every other woman who hasn’t used her visual system and a mirror to spot some rather obvious muffin top. So there.

As for the smoke and mirror aspect? My beloved granny corsets (no less). Actual photographic evidence of undies that reach the ribs follows (so beware):

 

May I present one week to three weeks post partum?

As for where I am now (four weeks and counting):

Progress is being made, corsets on at least.

As for the much lumpier corsets-off version, well.

The way I see it the only person who sees me with them off is Long Suffering and he still wants to shag me anyway (A topic for an upcoming post).

In summary, to improve matters further, I think I’m going to actually have to …shudder…exercise. Failing that, I’ll have to have a funeral for the contents of my wardrobe and begin anew.

 

 

 

That wheezing you hear? The sound of a newly post partum post pushing twenty weeks of bedrest flabby deconditioned sloth like me attempting to break stride. Exercise? Ha!

Nobody said it would be easy, but boy I want to slap those hollywood types right now…..

Coming up:

As Promised, Post-Partum Passion, or how I Am Officially Back In The Saddle, again.

A memo to Lon Suffering: The Motherf*ckers Ball is Not An Appropriate Nursery Rhyme.