There are a lot of things that happened to my body when I had my babies. Some of them were kind of gross (not sure where all that mucous comes from) and some of them I claim as a badge of honour – hello stretch marks. I aged, my skin changed, my breasts took a beating and that stitch, it honestly couldn’t have gone into a worse possible spot.
But none of that really phased me.
It wasn’t until I stopped breast feeding my second and decided to get back into high heels that I realized the full measure of what pregnancy had done to me. Over my two pregnancies, to my absolute horror, my feet had grown.
The club shoes of my pre-baby days had seen their last dance floor. Those sweet patent stacks that had set me back almost half a month’s rent were no longer the ones I had to have that were “Just so worth it, sooooooo worth it” now. Those gorgeous boots that put me towering at 6’1″, that, gave me legs that wouldn’t stop…
Who am I kidding? Those legs have stopped.
My feet weren’t small to begin with – sized 10, though very narrow. An appropriate match for my 5’9″ frame. But they spread and grew. Now, at size 11, my shoe choices are limited. Not everyone makes a size 11. And even if they did, with 2 children and a childcare cheque rivalling my mortgage payments, I have no business replacing them.
I keep telling myself that I’ll have pretty shoes, one day. I know I don’t need those club shoes, or those heels that put the boot into booty-shaking, but it was a cold, hard, painful day when I packed up my pretties and dropped them off at the donation box. All I can hope is that those lovelies made their way to a generation of gals in need of hot shoes. I have one pre-baby pair left in my drawer. I visit them often and reminisce of days gone by as I push them aside each morning and grab the mom jeans to go with those Birkenstocks and Tom’s of mine.
Ever realize the 24 year old version of yourself would have scoffed? So long sweet slingbacks, we did have some fun, didn’t we.