This body is a good body, fupa and all.

Yeah, we’re going to talk about that.

Do you know what a “fupa” is?

I did, but not by it’s christian name until this week. Fupa means fat upper pubic area for those of you who don’t know. A name that on first read made me want to crawl inside my skin and hide like a turtle. A name I had to google after being targeted for shape-wear (insert cry laugh emoji here).

Because yes, I have a fupa.

A part of my body that I’m mostly in horror of that now is a part of me post-birth. When my body started to slip back into the “normal” shape it would remain in, I had hoped that little bag of fat would melt away like all the other strange pregnant bits. But as the hormones leveled out, I had to face the facts - this fupa is here to stay.

Getting a fupa feels to me like wearing a big fat sign that I’ve left the world of the young ones and entered into the world of high-wasted mom-pants and shape-wear. It’s as shocking as if someone handed me a mu-mu and a casserole dish as I’m trying to go out dancing at a club.

Wait, what? This is me now?

When I get dressed and do that thing that all women do (do men do this too?) and size up my naked reflection, these are often the thoughts that haunt me.

“Gross...”

“How much diet restriction and crunches would it take to get this thing off? Is that even possible?”

“I’m officially old.”

And then I sigh, and put on my clothes, and remember the one person who never thinks these terrible thoughts. Who loves the fupa, though he calls it by a different name.

“Belly! I want Belly,” my toddling son will declare.

It became an official character in the home after my son weaned and was constantly grabbing for any bit of my skin. I could tell, he missed that physical closeness of skin-on-skin that comes with breastfeeding, and I too felt sad at the necessary ending of that part of our relationship. But I, for one, was not going to have a kid who grabs my boobs in public or reaches his hand down my shirt when he feels anxious. No offense if you’re a mom that’s cool with that. It just wasn’t going to happen with me.

So instead, I offered the next best thing I could think of on the spot. Rather than reaching for my chest, I let him touch my belly. Only at home, mostly out of the prying eyes of the public. He comes to me snuggling saying, “Belly,” and reaches to hold or scratch it. When he’s upset, or sleepy, or just waking up, he will often ask and if I’m not touched out or grumpy myself, I will let him.

Of course my kid did not take to a stuffy or a lovey, though we thrusted soft giraffes and plush monkeys upon him hoping one would stick.

No, my kid’s lovey is my squishy belly, my fupa.

When I start to be haunted by all of my toxic thoughts about this fupa, I am reminded that Belly has a name, with a capital B. To my son, it is a safe place. It is comfort. It is a part of mama.

Will I have a fupa forever? I guess I could, as I’ve looked up how to get rid of this and it seems like a pretty tough deal. Not to say it’s impossible, just that it takes very focused work. Which, as a mom in the littles stage, is not something I have decided to suck up my time, for now.

Instead I might suck in my belly, or focus on finding flattering pants and switch out skin-tight dresses for flowy frocks (though I will still say no to the mu-mu thank you very much).

For now, I will try to be as gentle with my belly as my son is. Because whether my body has an endearing name known by the family or not, this body is a good body. This Belly is a good belly.

Fupa and all.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Haunted".