The other day, I was indulging in my Instagram addiction, snapping various selfies and shots of William, when someone remarked how I don’t share much of myself, apart from my face. And it’s true.
I don’t like my figure. I never really have done. Especially not now. I sometimes look at my reflection and feel a hot wash of shame flow over me and it’s a horrible sensation. Admittedly, I do resort to making my mum tum talk for a little light relief, but even then it’s false bravado. And for who? Just myself.
The stretchmarks. The lumps. The sag. The boobs that are often scratched and bruised after been manhandled by a baby for over eleven months now. My skin feels dull. My razor can be neglected for a fortnight before I realise that my legs are looking a little too much like Chewbacca’s. I have a huge bottom, noticeably so. My thighs are wobbly at best. My arms are beefy. My waist is small, sure, but it’s emphasised by the big hanging mass that is my mum tum.
So I don’t show it often. People don’t need to see that. But then I sort of felt I should that evening – so I did. There’s nothing I’m hiding per se, more just, concealing from view because it makes me feel better.
|Excuse the awful Instagram shot. And the size of my arse. And the state of my carpets.|
Instead I rely on my face. Because I a) have one and b) own a lot of makeup with which to improve it. I’d be a hermit if not for concealer.
I like to paint a certain picture, craft a certain representation of myself, because the reality isn’t always that pretty. It’s not even to do with blogging – it’s life. I don’t meet strangers and go: “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Charlotte, hates fish but strangely enjoys the smell of my dog’s feet.” I’m an over-sharer and even for me that’s too much.
So here are a few things that I don’t really shout about that often, but are so very true:
- My big toes are so big they look like a grown man’s thumbs.
- Me and Stephen don’t have a perfect relationship, but we do have a lot of love. Between the moments of stony silence and bickering that is. Welcome to parenthood kids.
- Despite being known as a good cook, sometimes I do enjoy a good, old kiddy meal consisting of chicken nuggets, chips and beans.
- I’d benefit from a hearing aid, but I don’t want one.
- How much I love my son scares me.
- Yet, when William is screaming, head-butting the floor or pulling my hair, I just want to hand him to the nearest available adult – dog will do – and go to bed. For a week.
- Yes, I do find my dog’s pongy feet oddly comforting.
- I’m jealous of my mum for getting to spend her days with William.
- I get angry when I hear other mums whinge about their children when, mostly, I just miss mine.
- I miss having lots of friends – because motherhood at 24 and an accidental case of ‘growing up too quickly’ can leave your friendship barrel a little empty.
- Sometimes, I’ll just look at the state of my house, sigh, and turn the light off and go to bed. It can wait.
- I had a baby out of wedlock! Shock horror. But really, I feel sad that my boys, dog included, have the same surname and I’m the odd one out.
- I spend a lot of time wondering what it feels like to be thin.
- I spend a lot of time wondering: “what if?”
- I have learnt the perfect angle at which to take a selfie and any photos that highlight my double chin, or similar, end up getting deleted.
- The carpets in my house mainly look like this (not by choice might I add):
|Do you appreciate how nice and big I made this?|