Mommy Jeans, Meet Gia

This was the day.

This was the day I was both looking forward to and yet terrified of.

Today was the day that I went jean shopping postpartum.

Go ahead. Cry a little for me. Just a little. That's all I'm asking. One tiny little tear of sympathy. You don't even have to let the tear slide down your cheek--just allow it to gather up along the rim.

There was no avoiding it. I had worn transition maternity jeans until they thankfully became too big on me. Then, stupidly, I pulled out my jeans from pre-pregnancy. There's always a bit of hope that they will fit again. I mean, after my first baby I was able to wiggle into my old clothes. After my second baby, it might have taken a while, but I tugged on those old pants and barely (yes, barely) got them to meet in the middle. But not this time. Not after baby number three.

Those stupid jeans. Oh, those STUPID, ridiculous jeans! They wouldn't go up my thighs!

So as soon as we finished our school assignments, I bravely strapped the kids into the van and headed to the store. It wasn't brave to go to the store with two big loves and one six week old baby. It was brave to do this on my own AND shop for jeans. I knew it was going to take determination and insane grit to survive...

I bit down on my bottom lip, took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and tucked the baby into the Ka-tan wrap and marched on, Lucy and Teddy trailing behind me. I won't elaborate on how Lucy and Teddy looked like orphan children due to their amazing sense of style. Really. It's amazing...and creative....and a bit Dickens-esque.

"You guys be good. No hiding in clothing racks. No crawling on the floor. No playing hide and seek or tag. Do you hear me? We're going to go in, get what we need, and get out. Deal?"

They nodded, but I can't say Teddy didn't still hide in one or two racks. The stinker.

We made a bee-line straight for the women's department. I zoned in on blue jeans and quickly snatched up a few various sizes, since I just have no idea. There was no point in being picky, so I herded the kids into the handicap dressing room and told them to sit on the bench. "Here's my phone. Watch Netflix."

I kicked off my shoes and started to wiggle out of my pants, all the while the baby is still bundled up in the Ka-Tan wrapped around my torso. She jostles when I lose my balance (JUST A LITTLE!). I get the pants down past my thighs and then do a little jiggly (hmmm...that was supposed to say "jiggy" but I guess both apply) dance to get them to drop to my ankles. I caught Lucy glancing over at me, eyes-wide and cheeks pink. She tries not to laugh at me. I know she's amused to see me wiggling around in my panties. Or maybe she's a little bit embarrassed...but hey! day she will understand and sympathize.

I get the first pair of jeans on. I LOVE them! They look great on my calves and thighs. They have a bit of rock-n-roll wear to them--you know, the kind with little tears here and there that make you look like a rebel. They even looked AMAZING on my butt.

They did not, however, come close to meeting in the middle. Those suckers did not have a prayer of ever zipping up on my frame.

I wiggle out of them and panic when they barely move down my thighs. I wonder what I will do if I can't get out of them...or if I fall, London strapped to me, the sound of Veggietales playing from my dressing five year-old son giggling as he watches me...

And that's when London, the baby, started screaming wildly at me.

It's the worst cry ever! She even had tears in her eyes! But the amazing rock-n-roll skinny jeans (SKINNY jeans! What WAS I thinking?!?!) are stuck just above my knees!!

I glanced at Lucy and seriously considered asking her to come pull--no, PEEL--the jeans off of me. But I shrugged off that thought and try to figure out what to do about the screaming baby, first.

Oh, yeah! I have boobs!

The wrap covers my entire torso and is designed to nurse discreetly, not that I've tried to do that publicly before.  But if I don't do something soon, the store security is going to crash into my changing room and find my two older children watching TV on my phone, me trapped hopelessly in jeans from hell, and my tiny baby screaming...with TEARS in her eyes! OH! The TEARS!!!

So I reached into the wrap and try to pull my...*ahem*milk dispenser up and out of my shirt. I giggled a little because this is just now very, very weird. London's mouth is wide open as she screams and I popped the milk dispenser right into her mouth. She kept screaming. Lucy and Teddy are now both staring at me, Veggietales forgotten. Being caught staring, they look away, but they're both biting back huge smiles.

Finally, London quieted down. She didn't even eat. She was just content to have the milk dispenser shoved into her mouth while I continued to gently hop from one foot to the other to get out of the blasted jeans!

Stupid amazing rock-n-roll wear and tear.

Stupid way they hugged my thighs.

Stupid way they looked fabulous on my rear end...

The next pair of jeans sported a tag that reads: Tummy Slimming/Stretch Fit

These jeans were high rise...but somehow looked great on my butt too, even if they weren't for a super awesome rebel chick. But all that "tummy slimming" really meant that it pushed all the excess Gia up and over the top of the jeans, creating a tiny muffin top right under my...*ahem* milk dispensers.

But I'm taking them (actually, buying them). They zip. They button. They don't look completely hideous.

"Come on, kids." I grabbed the jeans and hurriedly pulled back on my own--this was much easier now than it was before. Thankfully, I remember to tuck the milk dispenser back down under my sweater as we file out of the handicap changing room (and oh how we needed it!!) and quickly paid for my mommy jeans.

Now here I am at home. The baby is sleeping peacefully in her bouncy seat beside me and the other two loves are in their bed. Hopefully they have already forgotten the mental image of mommy hopping around in her underwear with baby sister strapped to her chest...

And I am thinking that it just might not be so bad that I have my first real pair of mommy jeans. Who cares if I have a tiny muffin top peeking out from my mommy jeans? I have three amazingly cute kids that don't drive me completely nuts. They are good, smart, and loving. I mean, I have this six week old baby snoring gently a few inches away...and she's soft and warm and precious. My heart is so full and content that I even entertain the idea of one more little baby to add to our home. What more damage can another round of stretching and growing do to this body, right?!?!

I am happy.

I like this new Gia.

Better yet? My mommy jeans look great on this new and improved mommy butt of mine.

Just sayin'.


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