Recently- keen to get a little bit of baby free, care free, adult time- I excitedly went to a friends house for Friday girly night. This particular hostess has the added luxury of a hot tub in her garden and suggested a post dinner dip to finish off the evening. I have to admit, I jumped at the idea and decided to bring a bottle of prosecco because when you’re in bubbles surely it’s the law to drink bubbles too?!
As the date drew nearer something started to dawn on me…
“What am I going to wear?!”
I CANNOT wear a bikini *barf*, a lot has happened since the last time I wore a bikini in public, mainly 2 body-altering pregnancies, but I also seem to have eaten all the food. All the food. ALL the food. Gone.
All the food now resides in my stomach, bum, back, thighs, calves, arms and chin(s) which I normally do an okish job of covering up with baggy fabrics, smock dresses and black- lots of black.
The problem is the bikini leaves no place to hide rolls. If I had to describe my stomach at the moment I would say that it probably looks like Mike from monsters inc. has been left out in the heat too long and has slightly melted…
I’m all for women power and praising the strong feminine sisters for pushing out babies and all that jazz but all this “yummy mummy tummy, you earned your strips” business does not sit well with me. There is nothing NOTHING yummy about my tummy at present, thank you, except possibly the contents.
This is something I mean to address. My most recent favourite past time involved eating a large bar of chocolate in front of the tele whilst my daughter slept on me. Seriously cuddle a sleepy baby and eat a bar of chocolate whilst curled up on the sofa- if you could bottle that content hormone rush you’d have the biggest selling chill out drug going- but I digress…
The solution was I needed to wear a swimming suit. And to start stomach crunches and squats and a diet immediately to reduce future bikini panics.
The other problem was swimsuits aren’t greatly flattering either. The answer I came up with was I’ll wear a tummy control one and just have to hope the steam and chlorine blinds people from seeing my body climbing awkwardly into the tub.
The final conundrum was once under water, in the dark, with the bubbles on, you probably won’t be able to see my bloated, untoned body- score- but what happens when you get out?! The answer? I can’t get out. Once in, I’m in for life. Fine, I’ll make a good prune.
(Not actually me in a bikini but not far off)
So I headed off all excited and as it turns out I need not have been so concerned. The night was dark and dark is a fat girl in a swim suits best friend. The hot tub was steamy. Steam is also a fat girl in a swim suits friend. Everything went to plan. When I finally vacated the vicinity I popped on my strategically placed dressing gown and toddled off to the bathroom.
Question? Have you ever known the struggle of getting a damp swimsuit on and off after having one too many proseccos?
I have. It’s not fun. I earned a bruise or two.
The night as a whole was fun. Very fun. We consumed 3 bottles of prosecco, 2 bottles of wine and multiple cans of cider. There was 4 of us. One of us doesn’t drink. As I said the night was fun.
What wasn’t fun was waking up the next morning feeling what can only be described as like id been castaway on a lilo in the middle of the Mediterranean for days.
Dry lips, dry mouth, dry headache. I have never been so dehydrated in my life. I was hungover. Prosecco is not my friend.
(The best hangover cure- it’s like it’s been mixed by angels!)
I don’t get hangovers. Well, I never used too. It’s possible that when I turned 25, a whole quarter of a century, the gods decided to reward this momentous occasion by blessing me with hangovers forever more.
It’s also possible that perhaps I would have had hangovers at 23 and 24 but I wouldn’t have known as I spent the most parts of those years pregnant…
It’s of course it’s quite possible that since being a mum I’ve been blessed with the ability to become hungover. Whatever the reason, I was hungover.
It seems as I frolicked happily amongst the bubbles, drunk, deluded and debilitated the previous night (I’m sure at one point we were spinning around in circles to create a whirl pool) the fact that I had a baby that would need tending too in the morning had escaped me completely.
I can say, with all honesty, I never truly appreciated how blessed I am to have a bambino that sleeps from 7.30pm to 8.30/9.00am- I f***ing love that kid.
To give the hubby his due, he pretty much looked after the lamb for the whole day until he left at 5.00pm for the night shift, so I was pretty much left alone to die in peace which was nice.
As I lay in bed later that night, devouring a pizza, I reflected that despite the bikini fear, the soul destroying hangover and the distinct lack of go I displayed all day, it was all worth it. It’s nice to be a little carefree and to shake the mum title every now and then. I love being a mum; I adore it- best job ever- but it’s little events like this that give me a chance to be me again and not just “Connie’s mum“, which I think is a really important key to staying sane and enjoying motherhood.
As I teared the film off my pot of Haagen Daz Strawberry Cheesecake Ice cream, dug the spoon in and tuned into another episode of Modern Family; a tiny part of my brain reflected- with no guilt whatsoever- that the diet and exercise regime wasn’t really going to plan…