Dear Beyoncé,
Congratulations!
I’ve also been known to expel a child or two myself back in the day, and in rapturous anticipation of the midnight release of your first photograph of the twins, I decided to drag out the photo albums and find a picture of me and my own month old daughter. Of course, no one has surrounded me in primrose and topiary. However, I am wearing cold cabbage leaves in my nursing bra to soothe my aching boobs. Close enough, right?
There is no colorful silk swaddling for my baby, however, as you can see, she was a lovely shade of tangerine from a case of newborn jaundice, and this was probably one of the few blankets she hadn’t yet thrown up on.
My thighs aren’t in view here, but I can assure you that they definitely weren’t oiled and waxed to silky perfection. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty certain nothing from the waist down had even come close to a razor in at least six months. Yes, I was THAT big. Thank you very much.
I noticed you chose a sexy sky blue panty for your shoot. I can guarantee that I was also wearing panties in this photo. I can also guarantee that mine were the last pair of clean cotton briefs I fished out of a laundry hamper overflowing with clothing that I was simply too exhausted to fold. At the very least, I found something to hike up over my stretched, swollen abdomen. Sexy, right?
Your hair is flowing with perfectly placed extensions and your make-up is flawless, as usual, Queen Bey. I, of course, chose to go for more of a shell-shocked zombie appearance; combining my lack of sleep with the utterly dazed and confused look that screams, “Holy shit! I just dumped out an entire person!”
The oceanic view in the background is simply breathtaking. It’s a similar shade to the couch I’m poised upon. In the future, this is the same couch where I will spend quite a bit of time rocking back and forth with a toddler on my knee, while attempting to stave off the insanity brought about by Dora asking me 170 times a day if I can say “backpack.”
Yes, you and I definitely have different photographic versions of what motherhood looks like, B. However, none of that really matters, I suppose. We are clearly both mothers. Besides, a photograph can’t possibly define the depth and breadth of our love for our children. Am I right, girl, or amirite?
And even though you probably don’t need to worry about calling HAZMAT to deal with a clogged Diaper Genie any more than I have to worry about my next album drop, (because, let’s face it, you’ve probably got someone for that) I’m pretty certain that at our cores, we are one and the same:
Just two new moms trying to not screw shit up.
Oh, you may hide it better with all your smoke and mirrors and a pair of thigh-high Pucci boots, but I got you, B. New motherhood is one scary-ass time. No doubt.
So you just keep doing you, and standing in front of your over the top floral arrangement while holding those babies tight. Because whether you’re the wealthiest, most stunning woman in the world or a pale, Target junkie from the Midwest, we’re all in this together.
About the author: Jennifer Nance is a Michigan-based writer.
(Photo credit: Beyonce’s Instagram, natch.)
2 Comments
Way to go Jen!
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