Listen: Julie Jay — The odds of me whipping on a crop top are ‘slim’ to none

I AM never so svelte as I am in the weeks after giving birth, because of a little weight-loss hack called breastfeeding.

What’s just popped through the letterbox? Another invite to a summer wedding? Starting to fret how you will squeeze into your trusty bodycon dress? 

Well, I have a top tip for you: Get pregnant, have a child, breastfeed that child until you are a shell of your former physical self, and you will be standing by a chocolate fountain in a peach dress before you can say ‘mind the splatters’.

People will marvel at your transformation at the nuptials, as you chow down on the smoked salmon you so desperately ‘missed’ (but secretly ate) while expecting.

Pilates? CrossFit? Crippling anxiety? They will ask, curious to know the secret behind your body transformation before you tell them it is incredible how daily breastfeeding a 10lb baby, the equivalent in your body weight in milk, will drop those pounds off.

After I stopped breastfeeding my second child, I was in equal parts unsurprised and unaffected to notice that my jeans fit that little bit tighter and that it took that little bit more exertion to close my GAA mam jacket over my post-pregnancy bosoms. 

My lack of surprise had nothing to do with my much under-utilised clairvoyant ability, but because I had a similar experience with my first child.

Given that I’ve been down this road before, I was half expecting the news I received this week, from my doctor, that I was overweight in metric terms, though such news was thoughtfully cushioned between reassuring reminders that I have just had a baby and gentle encouragement that I am, in fact, doing just fine.

This did not just come up in casual conversation round the pub, but did form part of my check-up post-pregnancy, specifically in relation to my gestational diabetes.

For me, having a belly is less about fitting into jeans and more about trying to stave off type 2 diabetes, given that I am at a higher risk of getting the condition, having had gestational diabetes while pregnant. 

My doctor was quick to remind me that type 2 diabetes is manageable, but given that I am very much hit-and-miss when it comes to remembering to put my bins out, it’s probably best if I can avoid one more piece of personal admin’, if possible.

Were it not for this diabetes risk, I don’t think my post-pregnancy tummy would bother me in the slightest, because, while attacks about my personality or character still sting, I have become utterly unfazed by comments about my face or body. 

Thanks largely to distinctly unimaginative internet trolls, I am now impervious to any comments about my physical person aprés children. (Who knew keyboard warriors would inadvertently do so much for my self-esteem?)

As somebody who came of age in the late nineties and early noughties, I used to view weight gain as a bit of a failure, but for many years now the odds of me whipping on a crop top have been ‘slim’ to none. 

Gone are the days when I would try to ensure my abdomen was Copper Face Jacks ready at all times, and now my stomach is less something I view as an asset to be flashed in a bid to reel in an off-duty guard and more something I view as being integral to holding up my torso. 

For Julie 2024, my middle section is less a thing that must be toned and ripped and is more something that connects my chest to my legs.

When chatting to a friend recently in our usual social Mecca — the playground — I mentioned how weight around the stomach was a risk for diabetes and they nodded and uttered the immortal line: “So you’re in the risk category then.”

I stared, waiting for him to expand. Having clearly never met a human being before, this friend proceeded to add, “You know, because you’ve put some weight on around your belly.”

So ridiculous was this observation that my response consisted of manically laughing like the witches in the opening scene of Macbeth. 

It was an equally unsettling and ominous moment for all involved, especially for my friend, who realised his fatal error the second it was verbalised. 

There’s something strangely thrilling about somebody making an egregious social faux-pas and then metaphorically pulling the toes out of their mouth at speed (unless they’re double-jointed, then there’s a high chance they are quite literally doing so).

As my friend spluttered an apology and scooped his jaw off the ground, I stood, inflated BMI and all, totally unfazed. 

Truth be told, this was water off a duck’s belly, because even pregnancies aside, my belly has suffered enough in life: Spanx, bodycon dresses, deep-pan pizza, but, specifically, an ill-advised bellybutton piercing from a technician in the Ilac Centre who told me that disinfectant would be €10 extra. 

I decided not to indulge in this superfluous luxury because nothing said summer 2006 like an infected navel.

There’s no doubt my stomach has been through the mill, and if there’s a little weight around my middle, it’s not something any other human being should pass comment on, unless you are a doctor, and, even at that, you have to be in the middle of a consultation. 

You can’t be just sitting beside me on the bus when you spill the cold, hard facts.

News just in: When women have babies, their bodies change.

If you’re still fretting about not fitting into your pre-baby jeans, just remember how handy the extra bit of cushioning is when, if you’re like me, you walk into your car mirror on a daily basis. 

Failing that, remember that God invented elasticated waistbands for a reason. 

Now, go get ‘em, Tiger, ’cos you look beautiful, and that’s a medical fact.