When I had my first son, I was able to “bounce back,” as the horrible saying goes. It took about six months or so to lose the baby weight, and once I did, people acted as if I’d won an Academy Award. I was a MILF, my friends joked. “A mom? No way. I never would have guessed,” strangers at bars would say. “Seriously. I don’t believe you. Show me your C-section scar.” It was inappropriate and bizarre, and I hate that I loved every second of it.
After my second child, however, all that changed. Almost a year postpartum, I was 15 pounds heavier than I’d ever been, slightly balding, haggard, and feeling like Demi Moore midway through The Substance, except with a greater appreciation of Ms. Rachel’s oeuvre. I felt like I was surrounded by reminders of my failure to keep it tight: tabloids screaming about Emily Ratajkowski’s post-baby bikini shoots and Hilaria Baldwin’s lingerie selfies 12 days after having her fourth baby. As much as I had expected the self-abnegation that comes with early motherhood — the sleepless nights, the chafing nipples, the postpartum hair loss — I did not expect to also be consumed by grief over the loss of what I could only think of as my MILFdom.
