I’m bastard-well proud of my Mummyhood body,
It’s wobbly and wonky and flabby.
It’s fair to say my trunk, is carrying a little too much junk,
But overall I don’t feel too shabby.
My hips have spread,
my boobs are dead,
and my bum’s more a pasty than peach.
My hair’s like straw,
my feet are still sore,
and my cellulite starts at my knees.
My wrists don’t work,
I’m too stiff to twerk,
I look like I’ve been punched in both eyes.
My waist has gone,
I can no longer wear a thong,
there’s some serious thunder in my thighs.
Praise be to spanx,
I owe you many thanks,
for hiding my muffin top in my vagina. (or something)
My tum takes too much room,
but it’s better than my womb;
it’s fair to say it’s hardly ‘designer’…
My back bloody aches,
my hair colour’s a mistake,
my stretch-marks come out in the sun.
including my eye-bags,
It ALL points south once you’re a mum.
But I’m still shitting proud of my Mummyhood body,
With its battle-scars and lumpy bits all in.
It’s curvy and quirky and some parts flap in the wind,
And mostly I’m held together with gin*.*gin and cake and gin