Photo: Emily Evans via Hashtag MomFail

Can you still call it a postpartum body if your baby is one?

Actually, he’s fifteen months, but I know people don’t like it when you say your child’s age in months.

It has been fifteen months since I had my eight-pound, two-ounce baby via c-section, and I’m still not happy with how I look.

Now, don’t bombard me with your diet plans people. Thanks. In. Advance.

So here’s the deal. I’ve always been what my mom calls “curvy”. After I had Baby Boy #1, she pretty much told me that I would never get my old body back. And that really lit a fire under my ass. If someone tells me I can’t do something, I work my booty off just to prove them wrong. So I got into a clean-eating and exercise routine that actually had me looking better than I did before I had my baby. And I was proud of myself. Looking back, I didn’t give myself enough credit.

So I just figured that after having Baby Boy #2, I would jump right back into my clean eating and exercise routine and I would be back in my skinny jeans in no time.

NOPE. Didn’t happen.

What I didn’t realize is that when you have a toddler and a newborn, life gets a hell of a lot more hectic. Add in a full-time job, my blog, my side hustle of doing books, a husband that works full time and coaches a baseball team and a health scare with the baby, and I wasn’t doing much clean eating. What I was doing was cleaning out the fridge and pantry and the local McDonald’s while eating everything.

I did continue my workout routine. It was something that made me feel good. It gave me energy. And it was the only part of my day where I could be ALONE.

But I still look in the mirror and see that ten extra pounds that has settled around my waist like a spare tire. The bags under my eyes can’t even be covered by makeup sometimes. I thought I had running mascara one day and grabbed a makeup remover wipe to realize that it was just the dark-ass bags under my eyes.

I looked at myself in a picture from an event I attended this summer with my husband and a few other couples. All I did was pick apart what was wrong in the picture. The tops of my arms were fat. You could see my belly sticking out. I was pale. My hair was a hot mess. All the other women were skinny and stylish and looked like they could do a makeup tutorial on a real YouTube channel. Why was I being so hard on myself? They were moms too. But I was the only one that looked like she walked to the event five miles in heels in 100-degree heat while herding dirty donkeys.

Why am I so worked up about this?

Because I have spent the last two years being someone that empowers women to be the best they can be. But also reminding them that you can’t be too hard on yourself and that no one is perfect. To not feel bad about themselves for drinking wine, or hiding in the bathroom to get some alone time, or cry in the shower because they just feel defeated because their kid drew on the wall with a Sharpie.

And I think that’s why I am so frustrated with myself now. I know that no one is perfect. But I’m stuck between, “Your body grew two beautiful babies and you are freaking busy so don’t be so hard on yourself” to “Put down the cheeseburger, Jamie. Your ass is growing by the minute.”

So to narrow it down, I am trying to say that I am mad at myself for being too hard on myself but also mad because I can’t lose ten pounds but also craving a cheeseburger and to “Treat Yo ‘Self.”

So somewhere in the middle, there has to be a happy medium right?

I honestly think this probably encompasses a lot of moms I know. We want to be skinny and beautiful, but we also want to play with our kids in our pajamas with no makeup on, and we want to sleep late and eat a long john donut from the Rolling Pin every chance we can.

But we can’t have it all can we? Because I sure as hell haven’t slept late in the five years.

So for now, I’ll keep working out. I’ll try to be healthy, and I’ll treat myself because my life is crazy and we all need a little down time and a cheeseburger from the Big Dipper. I’ll stop trying to be perfect and just be. Be a mom. Be a wife. Be me.

Even if that mom I am has a spare tire and dark-ass bags under her eyes.

Until next time,

Jamie

This post originally appeared on Hashtag MomFail.