Dear Flap of Peculiar Abdominal Skin That Emerged After I Became a Mother,
I have to say it: I really can’t stand you.
Honestly, I’m not quite sure if you should be called a “flap” or a “shelf,” or if there’s a fancy medical term for you. But let’s just be real—I want to call you something worse than an “asshole.” At least my backside didn’t make a surprise appearance, creating a bulge that’s impossible to hide. But here you are, hanging around, and I’m not happy about it.
I vividly remember our first encounter following my C-section. My fingertips cautiously explored the unfamiliar landscape of my abdomen. “Wow, that incision is pretty puffy,” I thought to myself. How naive I was to believe that this swelling would vanish once the healing began. Oh, how wrong I was!
My little one isn’t so little anymore, Flap, yet you stubbornly remain, like an unwanted guest who’s overstayed their welcome. I’ve tried to make peace with you, but every time I have to tuck you into my underwear or adjust you like a misplaced accessory, I’m reminded of just how much I loathe your existence. I could read all the inspirational articles on body positivity I want, but the only uplift I crave is in the form of some serious plastic surgery to fix this bumpy doughnut resting near my C-section scar.
Sure, I wasn’t a swimsuit model before your arrival, but my post-baby belly didn’t need your assistance in becoming a hot mess. Stretch marks can be discreetly hidden under clothes, but you? Oh no, you want the spotlight! When I wear my favorite yoga pants, I might as well sport a flashing neon sign pointing to that peculiar bump in the front. I find myself tugging at my shirt, desperately trying to cover you up, imagining people whispering, “Was that a camel toe?”
Just to be extra annoying, you’ve made sure to settle in a spot where sucking you in is impossible. Thanks to you, I’ve spent way too much on uncomfortable shapewear, and even when I manage to conceal you, I know you’re there, waiting to pop out like a jack-in-the-box ready to ruin my day.
Do you have any idea how unsexy it is to lift you up while shaving? It feels as useless as polishing a rock. And let’s not even talk about how you’re often numb, adding an eerie quality to our relationship. The one silver lining? At least I don’t feel the pain when I accidentally zip you up in my jeans.
Honestly, Flap, I’m over it. No one warned me you’d be crashing the party, and you definitely weren’t invited. You’re like that friend who just won’t leave after the party’s over. I can’t seem to exercise you away, and guilt-tripping doesn’t help, so I guess I’ll keep hunting for longer shirts and try to accept you—for now. But if I ever hit the jackpot, I’ll be heading straight for the plastic surgeon’s office to evict you without mercy.
So watch out, because I’m off to buy some lottery tickets. Or maybe ten.
With zero love,
Me
Further Reading
In case you want to explore more about this topic, check out this post on home insemination and for those on a journey toward parenthood, Make a Mom has some great resources. If you’re considering in vitro fertilization, this Wikipedia article is an excellent read.
Summary
This humorous open letter expresses the frustrations of a mother dealing with her post-pregnancy belly flap. It captures the emotional and physical challenges of accepting changes to the body after childbirth, woven with a light-hearted tone and relatable anecdotes.