This weekend I wore jeans. Not once, but twice. Not leggings, not jeggings, not skinny jeans. Real jeans. While I have to admit it was nice for a few minutes and I was pleasantly surprised with how they fit, I felt like I had cheated on my yogas and I couldn’t wait to get home to their warm embrace. Some days I question how much I wear them. Is this socially acceptable? Have I let myself go? Am I not trying hard enough? Fortunately, however, my husband’s continual reminder of how much he loves my butt in them and their sheer practicality for surviving a day at home with my daughter keeps me reaching for them day after day. I debated for a bit on whether or not I should actually take the time to write about a simple pair of pants, but if they are in the name of the blog I have to write about them at some point, right? So here it is. My somewhat serious, somewhat satirical ode to my beloved yoga pants.
After doctors needed to open my abdomen to get my precious girl out safely, you were there to ever so gently rest on my incision as it healed.
Over a near two year span of pregnancy, childbirth, and and working to get my body back, you were always there to adjust my ever changing body without requiring me to purchase you in five different sizes.
When my daughter sneezes with a mouth full of applesauce, I can quickly rub it into my pants and you would never know the difference. You just take it and hide it like it never happened at all.
That Christmas I was very pregnant and ate enough mashed potatoes and green bean casserole for three adult men, you were literally the only one at the table that didn’t judge me.
When hurdling a baby gate numerous times is a daily requirement, you allow me to feel like my form and speed is Olympic worthy. Sometimes I hurdle it quickly just because I can.
As much of my day is spent bending over to pick up the storm of toys Tayler leaves in her wake, you allow me to do it without ever feeling my butt crack exposed. No gentle breeze ever tickles my backside.
Some days it’s a challenge to fully beautify myself before my husband gets home. When all else fails, you still hug his favorite curves perfectly, and that is always a win.
When I was so enormous I was convinced I was carrying a grown man and could no longer shave my legs effectively without falling out of the shower, your leggings allowed me to sleep in peace without being poked repeatedly.
Those times my daughter needed to be with me so bad that she refused to be put on her nemesis (the floor!) when I needed to use the bathroom, you didn’t require me to undo buttons. You allowed me to successfully hold her in one arm and take care of my business with the other. Many times.
You allow me to go from doting mother to getting in a quick sweat session as a treadmill beast at the drop of the hat. Literally. I don’t even have to change.
Army crawling through miniature sized tents, crouching in boxes, turning her into an airplane on top of my feet, and transforming my body into a back bridge for her to crawl under are all done with ease thanks to your ever-forgiving stretch. Seriously. I do a killer bridge.
When Tayler’s main goal was seeing how many times she could get me to change my clothes in a day with her spit up, you endured wash after wash after wash. And I didn’t even need to do the jeans lunge so you fit right when I put you back on. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Sometimes the fast pace and multitude of tasks a parenting team is required to attend to in a day leaves little time for romance. But yogas, you always accommodate the quick hand-slide, butt-cheek grab. Always. And for that, my husband thanks you.
Back in our hay-day when Tayler and I were a class A team at napping together, you allowed us to do so comfortably, at any time, anywhere, and in any position.
When Tayler was attached to my breasts for months, you did a spectacular job of catching any breast milk that escaped past the burp cloth on my stomach. I didn’t even need to ask.
And perhaps the most important: on days after baby when my self-confidence and self-esteem desperately needed a pick-me-up, you were always forgiving so I didn’t self loathe any more over the state of my mom pooch or increased size of my love handles. You just covered them, and reminded me I am still beautiful – no matter my jean size.
While jeans and I will continue to have an occasional affair on the side, Yoga Pants, you will always be my one true love.