You know that really embarrassing family story about the time the kids did that one thing in public at that one place and you were all like OMG that’s only okay to tell after five too many wine coolers with the girlfriends while the little angels terrorize Daddy because it’s your night off? Or that time you dressed up like an Italian sausage at Target while your kids picked out string bikinis for you to try on?
Yeah? Well, my friend just one-upped America with a book she wrote full of little gems like these that she wrote… while she was sober.
Okay, so the actual title is Ketchup is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves and the mom behind the book is named Robin O’Bryant. I’ll let the following excerpt speak for itself…but make sure to some back Wednesday and Friday for my review and an author interview (including a giveaway for a signed copy of Robin’s book!)
After giving birth to Sadie, my third daughter in four years, I was perfectly happy to be fat for a few months while I finished breastfeeding, until I got a card in the mail from my little brother’s fiancee. I called my sister Blair immediately and said, “Did you get a card in the mail from Anna?”
She could tell by the tone of my voice I was panicking so she said, “OH NO! They didn’t break up did they?”
“Oh no, it’s so much worse than that…”
“Aw crap, did she ask us to be in the wedding?”
I was flattered she asked me but I was horrified. I could wear a sarong at the pool all summer, but would probably look suspicious walking down the aisle that way. I reluctantly started going back to the gym and Blair started doing Weight Watchers. My feelings about exercising when breastfeeding are about the same as they are when pregnant: It’s pointless.
When I’m pregnant I’m going to gain weight no matter what. When nursing, my body fights to hold on to fat like I’m going to be hibernating. For example… my sister lost nine pounds in two weeks on Weight Watchers; I on the other hand gained a pound and a half going to the gym for a week. (Please save the muscle-weighs-more-than-fat tirade for someone else. When I exercise while breastfeeding I am ravenous and will eat anything in sight. I end up consuming more calories than I burn.)
As summer quickly approached I finally had to break down and buy a bathing suit. No amount of tugging and/or lubricant could coax my post-baby body into one of the million suits I already owned. There was no way my baby’s meal tickets were going to be squeezed into anything I already had.
I went to Target (also known to Mommies across the country as their “happy place”), and bought a “Big Girra Bathing Suit.”
“Mommy, how ‘bout this one? It is SO cute!” Aubrey said as she picked up a hot pink string bikini.
I looked critically at the bathing suit she was holding, and quickly deduced that the triangle top probably wouldn’t even cover my zipple.
“No baby. I don’t want the other mommies at the pool to have nightmares.”
We continued back to the “Women’s Sizes” and I flattered myself with the first size I chose and forced it on to my body, Lycra snapped and crackled as I pulled, stretched and sucked it in. After seeing my reflection closely resembled an Italian sausage I’d eaten once, I was forced to get a larger size.
This should have meant that I took off the suit and put my clothes back on to go get another one. But If you’re shopping for clothes somewhere you can also buy an ICEE or a foot- long hot dog, you need to realize that no one is going to come knock softly on your door to see if you need another size. I’m lazy though, so I put on the swimsuit cover-up I was trying on and walked to get another size, dressed for the pool. I’m not going to tell you what size I ended up in, though I will say it had a “W” behind the numberS. (Plural. As in there was more than one.) I called my sister while I was checking out and she texted back, “I’m in WW’s (Weight Watcher’s) can’t talk, ttyl ”
I texted her back, “How many pts are a Butterfinger & a Coke cuz that’s what I’m eating rite now?” Maybe I can convince Anna that all of the bridesmaids should be in sarongs.