Twenty Minutes of Mom Stuff

For those struggling to embrace the mom bod

Photo by Kevin Butz on Unsplash

A couple of weeks ago, I was late for a book event with my friend

Tommy Tomlinson

. When I rushed in to give him a hug, I offered my best excuse. “I’m sorry, I still haven’t learned to factor in the 20 minutes of mom stuff that happens before I leave the house.”

He smiled and told me to take a deep breath. But I still felt guilty, because guilt is part of the mom stuff.

In truth, I was late because I changed my outfit 18 times. Since I’ve had a child, none of my clothes—even the new ones—fit the same way from week to week. Plus, it was raining and muggy, so I debated how much I would sweat in pants or shiver in a long dress. I don’t have professional clothes anymore because it’s been four years since I needed them, and where are my shoes? Where are my keys? Why isn’t anyone eating the meatballs I cooked? Is my son watching a second episode of Daniel Tiger when I haven’t yet left the house?

This is the commentary that runs through my head every time I go on an adult outing. When I’m taking my son with me, I add an extra half hour for him to use the potty, protest his outfit, require a bribe to get into his car seat, etc. But when it’s just me (or my husband), I am incapable of getting myself together.

Maybe this is because I have adult-onset ADHD. Or maybe it’s because I gave birth at 40, during a pandemic, so all the physical changes that accompany pregnancy and midlife were exacerbated by a long stretch of time when nobody left the house. Now, when I try to leave, the person I see in the mirror is often unrecognizable.

There’s the dusting of gray hair, and the bags under my eyes from prolonged sleep deprivation. Most of my pants are too tight, because my stomach—three-and-half years after giving birth—still has that pooch.

A year ago, I wrote a letter to my body, thanking it for doing what no doctor thought it could: conceive a child at 40. My hips expanded to make room for his enormous head, and my belly stretched as he kicked. For weeks before his birth, I couldn’t sit down. After he arrived, I rarely slept. My bleeding, cracked nipples nourished him for 18 months, even when I was too exhausted to feed myself. “You carried so much,” I wrote. “I’m so sorry I have been cruel.”

That apology didn’t change everything, but it helped. Now when I hear the ugly voice in my head insisting my body should return to its pre-pregnancy shape, I can ignore it. I take walks in the morning to drown it out.

And when I get home, I hug my boy, the bright-eyed miracle I always wanted. My imperfect body brought him into the world. It’s time to say thank you.