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Every day when I stumble to the bathroom for my morning routine, I end up scowling in the mirror at what I see. Now, if I were thirty years younger, famous and living in Hollywood, I’d make front page news on the scandal sheets with my noticeable “baby bump.” Problem is, I’m passed 50, nowhere close to famous, and my “baby bump” is merely a postmenopausal pot belly.
This unwanted protrusion motivates me to shop with extra care, ever searching for ways to disguise it through careful clothing choices, scrutinizing how each piece hangs on my body.
Every glance in the mirror reminds me of this major flaw I possess in a society mad for flat abs. I feel the stares of others and sense their rolling eyes as they smugly tuck in their own oh-so-firm abs.
After three years of battling my aversion with weight loss attempts, I am determined to correct my attitude—once and for all. I decide Google search my predicament. I type “pot belly” in the search box (don’t forget the quote marks — very important), and up pop four choices:
First result: Pot Bellied People. Yech. This is just what I’m trying to escape! Quickly I move on to…
Second result: Pot Bellied Pigs. Carefully I research all the positive data. These pigs are intelligent and playful. That’s good. They’re also odor free and generally non-allergenic. Hmm. Interesting. But, do I really want to align myself with the porcine population? I forge on to…
Third result: Pot Bellied Stoves. Ah, Americana at its best. That useful, practical, heart- and-butt-warming American fixture of yesteryear. But do I want to be associated with antiques? In desperation I turn to…
Fourth result: Pot Belly Song by Freshlyground. I click on the YouTube link. The lead singer croons, Fat thighs, flabby arms. A pot belly still gives good loving. Oh yes! I have found my theme song. I watch the video over and over again.
This morning as I staggered to the bathroom and caught my reflection in the accusing mirror, my face scrunched up in familiar disgust—until I remembered the Pot Belly Song. A smile chased the frown from my face while I hummed the words; “Fat thighs, flabby arms. A pot belly still gives good loving.” Yep. I thank God for this brave, young band that has adjusted my attitude—permanently.
published on epiffunnies.com 7/09
Monday, September 7, 2009
Pumpkin Perfect
I watch Richard trudging through the pumpkin patch, in search of the biggest, roundest, most perfect pumpkin ever.
“Hurry up, Mommy,” he yells back at me while the crisp glory of autumn brushes past us in puffs of red, yellow and brown. “Here’s the best,” he announces, smacking his hand on a huge pumpkin before dashing off to examine another. His voice rises in tandem with his excitement. I smile, savoring our yearly mother and son tradition.
Richard’s birth in spring turned into my winter of bleakness when I could no longer ignore his lack of progress. With a heart laden in denial, I took him to our pediatrician. Severe mental retardation tagged him and dogged me.
The endless whirring of how and what and why buzzed my heart like locusts in a cornfield, consuming joy and hope. I tried to understand why God did this to me. I worried about my son’s future. I bled for my son, his father and his siblings.
I longed to shelter my son from the remarks of cruel or ignorant people. Even though he didn’t comprehend the comments, they cut me deep. It took many more tears and prayers to repair me. My son was fine.
As each year passed and other children progressed in the cycle of life with school, graduation, marriage, and having their own children, my heart suffered pained loss with each milestone never passed.
Yet, drop by relentless drop, my tears came to water the flowers of a new spring. Just as the crocuses stubbornly push their way through lingering snow every year, so faith began to press past worry to find the higher purposes of God. While the dogwood displayed its delicate white blooms against the stark dark bark, peace budded in me against bleak loss.
Summer warmed my heart as I learned to view my son through new eyes. I grew to see the hidden blessings of having an eternal child. My son will always believe in Santa Claus, reliving the magic of Christmas with the same zest every year.
Richard taught me God because he holds no grudges and knows no prejudice. His love remains unconditional no matter how much I fail him. His enthusiasm for life continues unabated.
“Mommy, mommy, I found it,” Richard yells, waving at me to come join him. As he has done every year, for many years, he has found the biggest, roundest, most perfect pumpkin ever. I hurry to admire his prize, hugging him close.
“You’re the best mom in the whole wide world,” he announces with loud exuberance, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “The very, very best! Thank you, Mommy.”
My heart overflows in a cornucopia of gratefulness. I have harvested the fruit of those summer years in the autumn of worship. My garden is filled with the vibrant, aromatic blooms of love, joy and peace.
Thank you, Lord, for blessing me with this rare gift you entrusted to me—my son. Amen.
Author's note: I do not have a mentally disabled son. I work in a group home of 6 mentally disabled men. I wrote this short piece of fiction in honor of the mothers of these men I have grown to know and love.
“Hurry up, Mommy,” he yells back at me while the crisp glory of autumn brushes past us in puffs of red, yellow and brown. “Here’s the best,” he announces, smacking his hand on a huge pumpkin before dashing off to examine another. His voice rises in tandem with his excitement. I smile, savoring our yearly mother and son tradition.
Richard’s birth in spring turned into my winter of bleakness when I could no longer ignore his lack of progress. With a heart laden in denial, I took him to our pediatrician. Severe mental retardation tagged him and dogged me.
The endless whirring of how and what and why buzzed my heart like locusts in a cornfield, consuming joy and hope. I tried to understand why God did this to me. I worried about my son’s future. I bled for my son, his father and his siblings.
I longed to shelter my son from the remarks of cruel or ignorant people. Even though he didn’t comprehend the comments, they cut me deep. It took many more tears and prayers to repair me. My son was fine.
As each year passed and other children progressed in the cycle of life with school, graduation, marriage, and having their own children, my heart suffered pained loss with each milestone never passed.
Yet, drop by relentless drop, my tears came to water the flowers of a new spring. Just as the crocuses stubbornly push their way through lingering snow every year, so faith began to press past worry to find the higher purposes of God. While the dogwood displayed its delicate white blooms against the stark dark bark, peace budded in me against bleak loss.
Summer warmed my heart as I learned to view my son through new eyes. I grew to see the hidden blessings of having an eternal child. My son will always believe in Santa Claus, reliving the magic of Christmas with the same zest every year.
Richard taught me God because he holds no grudges and knows no prejudice. His love remains unconditional no matter how much I fail him. His enthusiasm for life continues unabated.
“Mommy, mommy, I found it,” Richard yells, waving at me to come join him. As he has done every year, for many years, he has found the biggest, roundest, most perfect pumpkin ever. I hurry to admire his prize, hugging him close.
“You’re the best mom in the whole wide world,” he announces with loud exuberance, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “The very, very best! Thank you, Mommy.”
My heart overflows in a cornucopia of gratefulness. I have harvested the fruit of those summer years in the autumn of worship. My garden is filled with the vibrant, aromatic blooms of love, joy and peace.
Thank you, Lord, for blessing me with this rare gift you entrusted to me—my son. Amen.
Author's note: I do not have a mentally disabled son. I work in a group home of 6 mentally disabled men. I wrote this short piece of fiction in honor of the mothers of these men I have grown to know and love.
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