My body tells a story—one marked by full breasts, a C-section scar, and abs that have eluded me since 2002. I sport stretch marks on my thighs, waist, and arms (seriously, what’s up with that?). My legs resemble tree trunks, and don’t even get me started on the proportions of my backside.
I carry an extra 20 pounds, still holding out hope to shed the baby weight, even if my kids are now 10 and 12. I know, I know—dreams, right? No amount of airbrushing or spray tanning could recreate the flat stomach I sported in my twenties.
On any given day, my bras contain enough underwire to support a construction site, while my underwear feels akin to Victorian corsets. The terms “lacy” and “sexy” have been swapped out for “sturdy” and “supportive.” Zippers on jeans make me uneasy, and I’ve all but resigned myself to never fitting into anything from my pre-kid days.
Yet, I still choose to wear a bikini.
The summer after my son was born, I embarked on the quest for the ideal “Mom-Body” swimsuit. I scoured stores for a black suit that offered padding, ample coverage, and support for The Girls, all while promising to make me look 30 pounds slimmer. Ruching became my new obsession, even though I had no clue what it meant, but I knew I needed it to hide the evidence of motherhood and my not-so-perfect physique.
The perfect suit would have a skirted bottom to mask my infrequent bikini waxes and built-in padding for my breastfeeding nipples. By the time I found something suitable, I resembled a 90-year-old Amish grandmother.
As much as I appreciate the Amish and their durable furniture, I refuse to waste time worrying about what people expect a mom to wear at the pool. The endless searching and trying on of suits just didn’t justify the effort anymore.
So, I wear bikinis—proudly. And you should, too.
My body has nurtured two humans for ten months each, completed six marathons, and produced milk for my children from breasts that swelled to enormous proportions. My husband gives me admiring looks more often than I can count, and honestly, I’m 40, and my “Give a Damn” is broken.
I won’t cover up to hide my stretch marks. I don’t care what you think of my soft abdomen. And if you happen to notice my nipples, that’s your problem; maybe focus on something else at the pool (seriously, dude, take a picture, it’ll last longer).
While countless articles push for positive body image and raising confident daughters, we’re simultaneously bombarded with images of celebrities flaunting perfect bodies thanks to airbrushing and teams of beauty consultants. As swimsuit season kicks off in May, our feeds fill with tips to look our best, ads for suits that promise to make us look 50 pounds lighter, and images that seem computer-generated.
Forget all that noise.
Why can’t we just wear what we want to the pool and enjoy ourselves? I find the woman confidently strolling to the snack bar in a bikini with her cottage cheese thighs far more inspiring than someone with washboard abs. I admire the mom who strips off her cover-up to reveal her breastfeeding breasts much more than the one floating effortlessly in the deep end with her silicone implants.
Women who embrace their so-called “flaws” in defiance of societal beauty standards are the ones I want beside me on the sand. They’re real, and I salute them with my stretch-marked arm. Together we declare, “This is me, take it or leave it, and if you don’t like it, focus on the Barbie in the pool” (no offense to Barbie—I’m sure she’s lovely).
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be applying sunscreen to my pale stomach while sinking my wobbly thighs into my beach chair, watching my kids enjoy the water.
Oh, and by the way, if you know what ruching is, keep it to yourself. My abs are just fine soaking up the golden summer rays.
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Summary:
This article celebrates body positivity, encouraging women to embrace their imperfections while wearing bikinis confidently. The author shares her own struggles with body image post-pregnancy and critiques societal beauty standards, advocating for self-acceptance and joy in personal choices.