The African Jiggly

I know I have been MIA for the past week, but I’m back to blogging

And I got my hair did.

Yep I did. 

The transformation to completely natural hair has been started. Excited? Yes I am. My new look? Micro braids.

The comments I have been getting are quite something. I walk in to work. “Did you put extensions in?” Then I try to explain the concept of micro braids. “Really….Can I touch them?”  “That’s not real human hair is it?” is by far the most laughable comment. The most common? “How long did it take?”

 

Four and a half hours. Yes, by the end my neck was stiff and my butt was sore. But ladies, you know as well as I do the price we pay to make ourselves look good.  The sacrifice is necessary and well worth it. 

Four and half hours. Yes, I took my son with me. 

Yeah I am crazy, but I lately I have been feeling I only get to see him when he is a sleep, so I wanted to be with Darren as much as possible on my day off. 

I am glad I did.

The African ladies doing my hair didn’t mind at all. Darren being his usual self turned on the charm and played nicely in my lap on and off for about an hour and a half. 

Then he was done.

Pooped out. Ready for a nap. 

No biggy right? I’ll just rock him in my lap. 

Nope. Not having that. 

Let me explain first about Darren and his naps. One, he is not a napper. This kid will go a hundred miles per hour for the whole day with maybe two twenty minute naps. Two, this kid will not fall asleep if there is tons of commotion around him. So being in a small room with three other people he’d never seen before, it was a recipe for disaster. Plus, these people where women? Forget it; I had already prepared myself for this. I was willing to let him exhaust every ounce of his energy before I forced him to take a nap.

But African ladies are a force to be reckoned with. 

They have tricks up their sleeves from the homeland that I wish I could do.

After being passed around the room to be rocked in the unoccupied hands, he was still fighting sleep. 

Finally one of the ladies asks.

“Do you mind if I put him on my back?”

“Seriously?” I ask. Yes, I asked. Just to double check I am not being taken for a ride.

“Yes, this is how we do it in my country.”

Do I mind? No ma’am I do not mind at all. Actually I am extremely intrigued. 

I watch as she gets a long African sari and they lay Darren piggy-back like on her back, then settle his legs on either side of her waist. The sari is around him like a blanket and the ends are tucked in at her chest and waist. 

Darren is laughing.

Then she starts doing a little jiggle.

Ten minutes later my boy is out like a light, his head bobbing gently to the jiggling.

I am amazed. 

I mention so to them. “I need to learn how to do that.”

“You have someone help you do it the first time.” They laugh. 

It’s true. I will need help, but baby number two (when he/she comes) will definitely be well acquainted with my African jiggly. Just to make sure I am going to practice with Darren now.

Skinny Girls Have Jiggly Too

Cindalicous calls it her persians (like the bakery treat). Black people know it as a booty-do. A lot of bloggy moms refer to it as their jiggly. Me I just know it as the extra padding. But I do have it.

My discovery of this jiggly started when my husband looked at me two weeks ago and said.

“Those jeans don’t fit like they use to.”

“Um, yeah. I did have a baby.”

I know he didn’t mean it a derogatory. Really, I think he is proud of it. Because he won’t have to explain to his family that his wife isn’t anorexic anymore; she is just really skinny. Pulse at the age of twenty-three I finally have hips and a budonka-donk. But it did make me start sneaking honest looks at my new form in the mirror.

What an unsettling experience. 

I will be honest; I thought I would get lucky and keep the same figure I entered my pregnancy with. Now, I have this pouch sitting on my front side. I should just name Darren Joey and tuck him back inside until he can walk.

Any change to a woman’s body regardless of her pervious weight, shape, etc. is life changing. And like most women I feel a huge urge to count carbs, diet excessively, and take inventory any and all pieces of food that past my lips and win my body back.

And like any sensible woman, I combine these extremes with going out to buy better fitting jeans.

I wiggle in to a part of Charlotte Russe Curvy Boot dark wash jeans and look in the mirror. The jiggly is making a definite concave, but my waist still has circulation. Then there is a knock on the fitting room door.

“Baby you in there?”

“Yeah,” I open the door to show him the wares. He looks them over. They get the butt-approval. I look doubtfully in the mirror and grab my jiggly.

He’s preening in the mirror.

“Babe, are you ok with my jiggly?”

Without looking at me he keeps smoothing his hair down. I block his view still clutching my pouch.

He looks me in the eye.

“Do you mind my jiggly?:

“No.”

“So I can’t really say anything can I? You look great.”

Have I mentioned I love this man?