On Muffin Tops and Big Mouths

On Saturday night I was dolled up, feeling snazzy, and excited for a late night dinner at Pen & Quill in the city.  One teenager was off and away, the other studying, the littlest down, and my first grader and I were chatting in the kitchen as I tidied up, waiting for my husband/hot date.  I was half-listening to the disconnected ramblings of the boy as I puttered, completing menial tasks that make my future self smile.  The arc of the conversation is lost for the ages, because as I crouched down to examine one of that sweet little cherub’s many injuries/aches/pains, two questions came out of his tiny little mouth that will loom large in my consciousness forevermore:

Mommy!  What is this?  

muffin top two.jpeg

He gently strokes my middle-aged side, right above my pants, the part that inflates when I put on my favorite “going out on the town” jeans, the ones that I *think* make me look hip and slim and not AS MOM-ISH.  HA.  (Listen, if I’m brutally honest, this part of me inflates when I wear any article of clothing with a respectable waistband.  But I digress).   

A look of utter and complete concern clouds his sweet face.  In the midst of my horror at his outing of my SITUATION, his tenderness is indeed touching.    

I attempt a stuttered, incoherent, jumbled explanation of the concept of MUFFIN TOP, middle-aged spread, the Trump Twelve, and birthing FOUR BABIES with he interrupts, clearly alarmed.  

But MOM. . .  DOES IT HURT?   

Ahem.

I explain to him that it is, in fact, simply a part of my body, and that no, it does not PHYSICALLY hurt.  

I stand up and he, satisfied by my explanation, changes the subject to his intense, newfound love of soda.

Ah, the oblivion of youth.  He shatters my vibe and blithely moves on to dissect the pros and cons of Dr. Pepper and Orange Crush. 

Sigh.

So much for the HIP, SLIM, "out on the town" illusion I had going on.

My wounded pride and I have a quick conference, and we decide and that this muffin-top problem is squarely the fault of pants designers everywhere who have the nerve to insist on unforgiving waistbands.  The problem is not me and pastries.  Or me and cake.  Or me and brownies.  Or me and the fried chicken sandwich I'm about to order at Pen & Quill.

No siree!

This problem can be easily solved.

High-waisted yoga pants FOREVER and EVER.  

Amen.