Hands Off My Mom Pouch!


mom pouch

Twenty years ago, I obsessed over my appearance.  I was never thin enough. My thighs were too big. My toes were too long. I was shaped like a pear. No, wait. A peach. Now that I’m forty with five kids under my belt, I’ve learned to embrace the imperfections. I accept the pregnancy road rash and consider the newly sagging skin a rite of passage. By most standards, I have entered mid-life. And I’m okay with that. It also doesn’t hurt that I am married to someone who loves me for who I am–blemishes and all. 

ME: Can you stop grabbing me there?

PONTILICIOUS: Why? Why can’t I grab you there?

ME: That’s my mom pouch. I really don’t want you grabbing my mom pouch. It sags and needs to be backfilled with dirt. Or bacon grease. So please don’t grab my mom pouch.

PONTILICIOUS: But I love your mom pouch!

ME: Why would you love my mom pouch?

PONTILICIOUS: Because I know that I contributed to it.

And that, my friends, is a man you hang on to–for the rest of time.


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