Is It Normal to Cry in the Fitting Room at Target?

A mother comes to terms with her postpartum body

Photo by lan deng on Unsplash

Two miracles happened in my belly, but instead of seeing my body as beautifully reshaped by those events, I feel horribly misshapen. When I was visibly pregnant, people on the street would offer blessings and congratulations. It’s been five months since the birth of my second son and now fitting into my jeans feels like a small miracle. I hear a world that values flat, maiden-like bodies, which advertise the potential for the miraculous, but lose their worth once they are ravaged/savaged by it. 

I see teenagers wear mom jeans ironically as if to say, look at these sad women who, despite working hard to shape the hearts and minds of the next generation of the species, can’t even get themselves in shape. Look at those pathetic ladies, with their messy buns and yoga pants and sensible shoes. Sure, they might be working from the moment they wake up until an hour or two before they go to sleep, but can’t they just pull it together? Look at those women--maybe some of whom prayed and cried and longed to bear children--they can’t be bothered to style their hair or swipe on some lip gloss? I hear it. I hear them because I did this too.

I smugly declared that “flats are for quitters” not understanding that when I got home from work or partying and took off my sexy heels, these flat-wearing women were still at it, on call day and night. It wasn’t until my second son began ripping out my hair that I gave in and started wearing ponytails most days. And those yoga pants? My still-healing abdomen turns every pair of jeans into “mom jeans,” and not in a way that is Gen-Z-approved.

The ones making the TikToks and tweeting the threads and setting the trends by and large are not consumed and rendered invisible and voiceless by motherhood. Before, I could snark on other women because I had free time. I wasn’t being interrupted every few minutes with a request for more snacks. I wasn’t playing “why are you crying” with a tiny human while Frozen II was droning on in the background. 

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On the days I can quiet all the voices--including Anna and Elsa’s--I can remember that there is a God who sees me. That God was given that name by an enslaved pregnant woman, alone in a wilderness, rendered invisible and voiceless by her station. Her body was overpowered and used by people who knew better and then abused her. That God saw her and heard her suffering, suffering that was infinitely worse than mine. 

So on the days--most days--I don’t feel like I’m enough for myself and my family, I can hold on to this truth. God-who-sees sees me, trudging along in this wilderness of motherhood and expectations. I can possess this truth. I can chew on it and digest it and be satisfied. I can hold onto the hope of resurrection, the hope that this body, wondrous though it is now, will be made even more so.