Wabble....wabble: This Mama needs wine...



My almost 4 year old is great at making up games. I am the main star of her most recent, which she’s aptly named ‘wabble-wabble’. I am not particularly crazy about this role, but am joining in with an enthusiasm bordering on manic.

Wabble-wabble goes like this. I’ll be dressing up or undressing or just out of the shower…in any state of undress where the wobble fraternal twins will be on display. She’ll run up to me with this huge smile, squealing with delight and gather in her 10 little fingers, as much of either my tummy or bum as her little hands can, give it a mighty my-life-depends-on-it shake while loudly singing ‘Wabble-wabble mummy…wiggly-wabble!’ over and over.  I’ll play along and I’ll wiggle more and join in and sing along. My girl is happy, I look happy to her and that’s what matters in that moment.

But see….

Wabble-wabble should never have been. I had it all figured out. I should, by now, be running my hands over washboard abs instead of this squishy dough. I… should be wiggling a pert pair of buns!. Hell, I should already be back to my pre pregnancy bod! I’d done this before and knew I could do it again. I maintained my workout routine throughout my pregnancy and went back to gym two months after popping my youngling. I should be in top form, but instead, I’ve become firm friends with wabble. My husband would say I am needlessly whining, but what does he know? All he sees are my huge milky boobies and rounder butt and that’s what's important. ‘You look sexy. Yum-yum.’ ’You are not big baby. Your old clothes fit already’ In all honesty, I should be thrilled, but am not. I have no muscle tone and I want wabble to stop.

Wabble’s a by-product of a vicious loop of viral attacks that have had my house under siege the last few months. We’ve probably gone through a sack of issue paper – poor forests. There’s been flu attack after another, stomach bugs and what comes with it.  Sleepless nights, antibiotics and staring wabble-depression in the face and telling it to F-the hell off.

I’ve been able to distract myself by day dreaming about all the stuff I’d buy if I won a lottery (which I’ve never played, but a house with a compound, smack in the middle of Prague would be nice). I’ve also dabbled in mind-preparation exercises where I whisper things about a future boob-job into my sleepy husband’s ear in the hope that he’ll think it’s his idea a few years from now. Jo’s boobies are taking a serious hit…You want them up again….yessss…my preciousssss. I’ve also taken to watching, from my window, all the crazy people jogging in the park in freezing sub zero temperatures and wasting my pity on them. Poor sods.

Mm-m, I know what you are thinking, ’She’s gone off her rocker.’ I might have…I- might - have…

Well! Spring is making a slow show and while am still recovering from the latest bout, I am ready to roar. I had my first gym session of the season two days ago. All my muscles are sore. I can hardly walk and it feeeeels great! It’s time to reboot operation bikini-bod. Who’s with me?

Here’s to having babies, to stretch marks….and to wabble...

Feel free to pick the largest wine glass in the house, if you are a mama...




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