In a recent email I was asked, quite nicely, to blog about ass acne. "I warned my gfs about this one, and they didn’t believe me." All I can say is SAY IT AIN’T SO. Yes, when you stop breastfeeding your breasts recoil and resemble cartoon boobs. Not Jessica Rabbit. We’re talking the kind kids draw on old ladies. Long U’s. I actually like my smaller breasts. There’s less of me. I don’t take up as much space. It feels good. So I’m losing clumps of hair. I had too much anyway. I know a lot of women complain about this time in their lives when their stomachs look like a deflated balloon, but I’m happy. I know the weight will come off. I’ve lost ten pounds. I’ll lose more, but I refuse to do it quickly, refuse to be miserable about any of it. I’m going to drink wine and eat carbs when I want. I’m healthy and happy, and for once don’t feel like complaining. My children are beautiful and happy, and I love falling in love with them. It’s frightening going out with them, alone. Just me and my beans. Phil has been away in New York this week, and while I’ve missed him, I really loved the space. Right now, even, it’s just the kids and me. And I love doing things my way, just me and my children. It’s the only time, or at least the first real time, when I feel like a mom. When it’s just us, and they have to rely on me, and they need me, just me. I like being their mother. Even when they’re both crying at the same time.
Tomorrow I’m taking them out on a play date. Alone. Just me and my kids, and I’m just so happy. Now, if you tell me I’m going to have ass acne, I’m certain I’ll be back to the Stephanie you all know and love, and love to hate.