While visiting my parents on Sunday I discovered a bunch of old shirts my mom had kept (I’m fairly certain she’s kept everything my brother and I ever touched). They were all from my elementary school days and as a joke I decided to try them on. I grabbed the first one I saw and started pulling it over my head, singing “Fat guy in a little coat…”

Imagine my surprise when the Indiana Beach shirt I got when I was six actually fit. Ok, it was definitely tighter and way too short, but I didn’t care.

Next, I tried on a shirt my mamaw gave me when I was 7:


No freaking way.

I grabbed the next shirt in the pile, my fifth grade cheerleading sweatshirt:


I was so excited that I ran downstairs to the kitchen where the BF and my dad were chatting. I paraded myself in front of them (completely interrupting their grown up conversation), making sure to do some pathetic toe touches and other cheerleader-type moves in the most obnoxious way possible. But seriously, I fit into something I wore in fifth grade and I had a baby five months ago.

I’m kind of proud of that.

Sort of related…I was in Wal-Mart the other day with a friend and we were looking at little girl’s shoes for her daughter. I pointed at a pair of sparkly black flats and said that I wished they were in grown up sizes. My friend laughed and said “I’ll bet those fit you…” 

They did. I can wear little girl’s size four sparkly flats. I almost bought them just because, but they were ten dollars and I’m a tight ass.

I guess the moral of this story is that you can have a broken thyroid, have a baby, and carry around a giant fibriod (yes, it’s still there) and still come back from all of it.