Clothes size: Just a number?

Yesterday, in my infinite wisdom, I decided to sort through my clothes. My wardrobe is crammed full of winter and maternity clothes and my summer clothes live in a plastic box in the winter months. They’ve been in the box for longer this year because I’ve been too fat (pregnant) to wear them. Optimistically hoping for another couple of months of warm weather I set about reuniting with old favourites from my summer box. However, post baby some of these favourites don’t actually fit yet.

Shorts: Nope.

Jeans: Hell no.

Tops that show just a peak of tummy: I think I’ll keep the wrinkly skin sack that was once an almost acceptable tum to myself thanks.

Bodycon dresses: I fear my bodycon days are over.

Self esteem well and truly knocked (hubs had to help me out of a couple of dresses) I moved onto the wardrobes. After removing what was too small and too hideous the wardrobes are now very sparsley populated.

A glass of wine later and having to be rescued from a dress became a slightly fuzzy memory.

This morning I’m feeling rather philosophical. Essentially clothes size is just a number, but the higher the number, the worse I feel about myself. What I need to accept is that my body is never going to be exactly like it was before. From my mum tum to my ladyparts and my now unusual nipple, it’s all changed, but it grew a human. And that’s a pretty awesome thing to do.

 

In other news:

Sir Legsalot is NOT dead.

I drank wine last night and am feeling it this morning.

William did a giant poo in the early hours, according to hubs, the biggest yet.

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Author: thebumpchroniclesblog

Thirty year old first time mum, sharing parenthood experiences/fails.

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