The Maternal Body

Yes, dear readers -- there is much to say. Stage Mother is returning this week (full of angst and a new busy schedule), the Lice Chronicles are moving into syndication, and then there's the enormous puppy who is able to climb onto the kitchen table and eating everything. And then vomit.

What a fun week ahead!

But tonight, the Matron is more somber. She's sitting here at the kitchen table, pondering the aging body.

Earlier today, one of her children came barreling into the bathroom, where the Matron was recovering from a shower (recovering because the hot water didn't really work all that well -- more fodder).

Matron: "Hey! I'm naked. Just a warning."

Anonymous Child: " OH MY GOD DON'T MOVE I Am GETTING OUT OF HERE!"

The horror quite literally bounded off the walls and all parties were involved in projectile terror.

She knows it's normal for children of a certain age and gender to run screaming from any body part not visible on the beach. But still -- what about the owner of the offending body?

Now, your intrepid narrator is a wee thing -- she weighs in at the very low end of the scale. Yet. . . .

There's that tire around the belly.

Breasts? Formerly pronounced. Now saggy acorn bits with sponge texture (and much smaller than anything you would use to clean the sink).

When she was a Young Miss, the Matron was aglow and basked in the delights of the flesh. Now, she mostly tries to hide it with pretty candles and just the right degree of exhaustion.

Now, she looks at lines in the mirror. The sagging skin. Notices how 'not noticed' she is anymore.

And it's not fair to stay the same weight for 25 years and have a stomach bigger than your breasts!

Growing up is hard to do.