My Beach Body has stretched to grow three humans. It has a hefty amount of stretch marks and a tummy that looks kind of like a deflated balloon. It’s smushy and cozy and not on my list of “immediate concerns.”
At not-quite six weeks post-partum, my Beach Body is ready for the bathing suit I just bought to accommodate a pooch. It is ready to splash in the pool with my girls and to enjoy a wine spritzer while lounging in an Adirondack chair and reading Rachael Ray magazine.
Next summer, my Beach Body will likely still need that same suit and that is OK.
You see, my Beach Body, which looks nothing like the Beach Body of my early 20s, is healthy and fulfilled. It enjoys a lean protein and vegetables for lunch and dinner, but also the chocolate that follows once the kids are in bed. My Beach Body now is not longing to fit the size 4 wedding dress stashed in my daughters’ dress up bin. It isn’t even reminiscing about all the size 6 pants that I donated when Tessa was born. It thinks a little about the 8s and 10s that are in the back of the closet, but is comfortable in maternity shorts and size 12 for now.
Twice a week, sometimes more, my Beach Body takes a walk around the neighborhood, all by itself, and truthfully, rocks out to those boy bands from the early 2000s that I still can’t quite get enough of. It doesn’t go quickly, or break into a jog, but it moves. It shows my girls that they can take a moment to breathe, to be in solitude, and to step away from the world’s chaos for 30 minutes.
My Beach Body wants my precious girls to know that they can go to a birthday party and enjoy a piece of cake. It walks those girls to the ice cream stand down the street and does not feel guilty about a chocolate-dipped cone with sprinkles. It doesn’t need wraps (thanks no thanks, random Facebook acquaintance that I haven’t spoken to in 10 years) or shakes. It doesn’t believe in cheat days, but in moderation. It feels balanced. Chubby and healthy and balanced.
Yo soy La Lay 