Well, eight years ago, Motherhood and Muffin Tops was born and this is her 497th blog post. With a little better planning, the 500th post could have fallen on this special day and it would’ve gelled better with my almost obsessive partiality for round numbers, but I will try to look past the unevenness of it all and not allow it to ruin the day. 

We’ve talked about almost everything in the last eight years. The past. The future. Our worries and fears. Our joys and blessings. We’ve loved and nurtured. We’ve lost and mourned. We’ve held tight to some things and then had to let them go. We’ve felt the weight and the joy of our calling as women. We’ve laughed and cried and, sometimes, we didn’t know how to feel. We’ve aged and grown. We’ve giggled and digressed. There were serious topics and spiritual matters. There were silly topics and sentimental matters. We’ve done it all together and I’ve loved every minute. 

When I’ve been joyful, grateful, and optimistic, you’ve traveled to those places with me. And when I’ve felt down, discouraged, or cynical, well, I’m sorry if I took you along. A lot has happened in these eight years in my life and yours. I had a college freshman and a ninth grader when this started. I was 45 and slimmer and my neck skin was as taut as a trampoline. There was a bumper crop of estrogen in my storehouse. I had more eye brow and less goatee. My mind wasn’t this foggy and my thoughts were more focused. My memory was longer than the lifespan of a mayfly. I could come up with the word I was trying to use and remember what I was saying until I was done. Those were good times. 

I could be like Tom Brady and leave while I’m ahead, but what would be the fun in that? No, I want to drag this excursion out until you all start to wonder if I’m ok and begin asking each other who you should call. Yeah, we’ve beat some subjects to death. We’ve repeated and rehashed. We’ve had absences and dry spells and reruns and disjointed messes. But, every now and then, I have a lucid thought that flows to the keyboard so smoothly that I know there’s no way it’s my own. Those times keep me doing this. If only, every once in a while, I can relay a word that can be helpful, then I’m still in it. So, if you can muddle through with me amidst the fogginess of menopause and estrogen insufficiency, I think we’ll forge ahead. Together if you’ll come. 

I thought my day, yesterday, pretty much summed up the experience of womanhood in a nutshell. I had my yearly appointment with my OB/GYN. At my age, we’re down to just the GYN part only. Anyway, when you go to a doctor, who still delivers babies, you never really know what to expect as far as wait times go. So, I get there and check in and couldn’t help but notice the unusually large gathering of women in the waiting room. It looked like a Pampered Chef party or a WMU meeting. I took my seat and soon the nurse came out to tell us the doctor was still at the hospital, but he would be back soon and they’d get us seen as quickly as possible. Well, I saw that for what it was- nurse talk for “some of you will need your headlights to get back home from here.” It was then that I decided to count the women waiting and there were thirteen- not including me or the men, who were there supporting their plump-bellied wives. I was his 2:00 and, from the looks of things, these were all the women who had after-lunch appointments prior to mine. With some quick math in my head, I decided to reschedule- helping his appointment pileup dilemma, while kicking the can down the road another month for myself. Win, win.  

When I left, I went to run a few errands with my newfound time. Well, because I was going to the doctor, I’d selected one of the bras from my “going to the doctor” collection. You know the ones that are nicer, newer, and never as comfy. We all have them, so don’t pretend you don’t. The mamas of our day really emphasized the importance of reserving our best undergarments for medical situations. As much as we heard about it, we were brainwashed into believing that there was some heavy underwear scrutiny going on down at the hospitals and clinics. Anyway, I’d tightened the nice bra straps that morning, because they were a bit loose and nothing is worse than a falling strap or so I thought. But, when I was out and about, in and out of the car, reaching for things over my head- it didn’t take long for me to realize I’d been overzealous in my tightening and that “comfort band” kept riding up, up, up. I’d look from side to side to see if I had an audience and, when the coast was clear, I’d grab the band of that thing and yank it down. Repeating the process about a dozen times. Rides up. Check surroundings. Yank it down. 

Meanwhile, I’d also put on some pants right out of the dryer. Y’all know there’s a big difference in pants out of the dryer and the same pants after a day or two of wear. Well, those particular pants didn’t have a very high waist, which is very much a drawback when one gets to a particular age. Without the added coverage of the high waist, the pants have less ground to travel before they’re over the hump of the muffin top and, once they’ve cleared that, well, there’s nothing stopping them then. So, I’d get my bra pulled down and, after another glance around the aisle, I’d hike up my pants- as far above my muffin top as possible- buying me more time before having to do it all again. Pull down. Pull up. Pull down. Pull up. I was certain the people watching the security cameras in the back were enjoying this spectacle. Nothing will cut an afternoon of errands shorter than bad shoes or band and strap discomfort. 

It’s not always rainbows and butterflies being a woman, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Let’s travel this road together for a while longer. Journeys are always more enjoyable that way. 

Thank you for reading. You do my heart good. 

JONI