Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“It doesn’t sound too catastrophic.”
“It’s not. Just a couple more days of work. I know you probably want your house back, but—”
“No, I’m not worried about that. At least I know with you doing it that this will be done right. I’m just sorry if this is eating into your schedule. I know you’re busy.”
“I always have time. How’d your outing go?”
“Pretty well, actually. It felt good to get out of pajamas for a day.”
That had his gaze sweeping over me.
I’d gone with a simple outfit, knowing I’d be stripping down at the doctor’s office. So I was just in a loose, lightweight T-shirt material navy romper that made it easy to both take off and nurse.
I resisted the urge to pull the cardigan I had on over it closed, to cover up.
I had been in survival mode too much to give my new body much thought until right then. But I was suddenly very aware of my much heavier breasts, the way my belly was still squishy.
But I was thinking about it then. How my nursing bra kept things mostly contained but didn’t exactly provide the same kind of lifting and separating that my normal ones would have. How the material of the romper was probably a little clingy around my tummy.
It shouldn’t matter.
I didn’t want to be someone who was vain, especially right after giving birth. But logic told me it likely had less to do about a few body changes and more to do with my complicated feelings about my sense of self-worth when it came to men after what happened with Adelaide’s father. If you could call him that.
A man’s opinion of me should have been low on my priority list, but some scars stayed tender. And sometimes you couldn’t help running a finger over them to feel the ache.
Owen’s face gave little away, though. Except for the way his gaze lingered just a second longer than was appropriate on my chest before making its way back to my face.
“I dunno. The pajamas had a certain kind of charm,” he said, shooting me an unexpectedly charming smile.
“It’s been a whole new world of clothing, that’s for sure.”
“Do you miss it? The power suits and heels?”
“Huh. I hadn’t really thought about it. I think I miss the confidence boost I felt when dressing that way. Though I don’t even know if any of it would fit now.”
“You haven’t changed that much,” he said, shaking his head.
It was embarrassing how much I needed to hear that. It was hard for any woman, let alone one who’d gone through pregnancy, not to hyper-fixate on small changes in their body. I’d been guilty of it even at my most fit and confident: Wasn’t this a little looser when I bought it? Did my triceps always look so jiggly? Is that the start of some cellulite? We were programmed from such a young age to criticize and hate the parts of us that didn’t stay the exact same as they were when we were teenagers.
So I guess I should have been prepared for how critical I would become of my postpartum body. I guess I’d been too hung up on my shock, the grief, the planning, and the research to give my body too much thought.
And while there were changes to it, I was looking at myself through a critical lens. Owen, an outsider, was looking with much kinder eyes.
“Aside from the eye bags and spit-up stains, you mean?” I joked just to avoid the way water threatened to flood my eyes at the throwaway compliment.
“The sleep will come eventually. And the spit-up stains will be gone before you know it. But so will the newborn phase.”
“Yeah, I’m trying not to wish for it to pass and stay in the moment. The often exhausting, overwhelming moment. I don’t think I’ve run a vacuum in like ten days. We’re not even going to talk about a mop.”
“No one is coming here to judge your house. They’re here to see you and the baby. And if they are here to judge your house, to hell with them. That’s their issue, not yours.” Owen shrugged.
He wasn’t wrong.
And my family was not judgmental.
The problem wasn’t external. It was my own expectations of myself. I’d always prided myself on having a clean house. I had a weekly cleaning schedule. I was borderline obsessive about my mirrors and windows. Walking into a neat home felt like immediate stress reduction after a long day of work. I could just change into leisurewear, light some candles, play some music, and cook a relaxing dinner without worrying about dishes in the sink or the dust bunnies in the corners.
All that was pre-baby, though.
“If it bothers you, they make robot vacuums and mops now. Same result. No effort.”
“How have I not thought about that?”