Sometimes I get down on myself. After all, I'm only human – a human who, since her formative years, has been force-fed images of women who look hella perfect from every angle. But you know what, screw it. Love me or leave me. I am who I am.

Sometimes I get down on myself. After all, I’m only human — a human who, since her formative years, has been force-fed images of women who look hella perfect from every angle. But you know what, screw it. Love me or leave me. I am who I am.

In other words, I’m #SorryNotSorry for being fat. Since I’m a mom, some might call it baby weight. But that’s just a cop out. I call it strength. My five foot five frame birthed two children — each one weighing in at almost ten pounds. Side note: My uterus just cringed thinking about the sheer weight of these kids, because clearly it has PTSD.

I might not be the size 8 I was in college, but look what my body can do. I am the creator of life — two boys that keep me on my toes from 6:30 am until that toddler decides he’s ready to sleep (try as we might to get him down at a decent time).

My body is strong inside and out. It can drag a toddler mid-tantrum out of a Target parking lot with one arm, while the other arm steers the shopping cart. It can carry a seven-year-old, who fell asleep in his car seat, into the house and safely into bed. Excuse me if I’m not counting my calories at the moment. I eat my fruits and veggies, and the occasional PB and J crust or spoon full of mac n’ cheese. Who doesn’t? It is delicious.

I exercise. I do yoga. I play. Health is the ultimate goal, not the number on the scale. Amiright?  I put my size 14 pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. So, I’m #SorryNotSorry about my baby pudge or whatever you want to call it – deal.



PYPEin

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