Mother Knows Best - Path 2-2 (Weight Gain Acceptance)

This is the second half of my contribution to the Mother Knows Best choose-your-own-adventure style weight gain story centered on a competitive mother-daughter pair with some other WG writers on deviantart! I chose to write the path where the mom, Danielle, gains weight, and then this follow-up chapter where she gains even more and has learned to accept and enjoy her new size. Hope y'all enjoy!

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I had been tugging on the waistband of my jeans for close to five minutes when I heard the telltale ripping noise. “Oh, shoot!” I said, voice trembling a little with frustration. That was the second pair of jeans I hadn’t been able to squeeze into that morning. One had ripped right along the side seam as I tried to force it up my thighs. The other had just barely buttoned, but I hadn’t been able to zip the fly closed, tummy pudge trying to squeeze out the little opening. I’d tried to squat down to work a little stretch into them, only to feel the inner seam rip from my thigh to my backside.

I could feel my face heating up with frustration and shame, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. It just felt so unfair. Here I was, just trying to put on a cute outfit for an anniversary date, and all I’d manage to do was remind myself how fat I’d gotten.

I grabbed a skirt out of the closet, certain that it would fit. I’d just bought it two months before, and there was no way it wouldn’t fit, right? (You would’ve figured I’d have learned my lesson by this point.) I even avoided stepping into the skirt, instead pulling it over my head, figuring that as long as I didn’t have to fight to get it over my thickened thighs I wouldn’t have a problem.

I was almost right. With the side zipper unzipped, I was eventually able to pull it down to my waist, even though things got a little dicey around my chest. Problem was, I couldn’t get the damn thing to zip up again. No matter how I tugged and sucked in and wiggled, the sides of the zipper were too damn far apart. Worst of all, I could barely get the thing off, the fabric clinging to my hips and ass like a second skin.

After another twenty minutes, I was out of breath and a little sweaty, face red with exertion and irritation, and still without anything appropriate to wear. I took a look at myself in my full-length mirror.

A couple years before, back when my daughter first moved back in, I would’ve been horrified by the fat woman staring back at me. I also would’ve broken down into tears by this point, and started swearing I would diet and exercise my way back to my previous weight. It still wasn’t entirely easy to see myself like this. I was somewhere north of 250 pounds–I’d thrown out my bathroom scale some time ago after Lyla pointed out that stepping on it only made me feel upset, so I wasn’t certain what my exact weight was these days–and I certainly looked it. No matter what angle I saw myself from, it was clear I was big. From the front, that manifested in notably wide hips and matching thighs. I was still a little self-conscious about that, but I’d learned to appreciate the exaggerated curve of them. Just above them, my stomach had softened. Looking at me head on, it wasn’t as prominent, dwarfed by my hips, but it wasn’t flat by any means. I could grab a handful of the pudge there, and did as I observed myself. I felt a little guilty for thinking it, but I was grateful my stomach was relatively slim compared to the rest of me.

My chest had filled out considerably, too. I’d always had good boobs, but at my slimmest they were more modest. Now, they were less perky, but made up for it with sheer size. I wasn’t quite in specialty bra territory, but that wasn’t far off. I’d squeezed them into a push-up bra that was just slightly too small to maximize my cleavage for my date that evening, and the effect was, even to my eyes, stunning. There were days I missed being thinner, but it was hard to deny the blessings of a few extra pounds.

From the side and back, my ass absolutely took prominence. It was getting harder to find underwear that could handle both my thighs and truckload of ass I was hauling around these days. When Jess and I were alone together, he had a running gag where every time I backed up, he would make beeping noises. From anyone else, it would’ve made me feel mortified, but he clearly intended it as a sign of appreciation. He’d made it clear early on he liked a little extra butt, and hadn’t much complained when “a little extra” became a whole lot extra.

Lyla rolled her eyes every time I said it, but I was grateful Jess had been so accepting of the changes in me over the years. She told me often that I “shouldn’t settle just because someone’s nice to you” and that not breaking up with me for putting on “a bit of weight” was the bare minimum. I couldn’t deny that she was right about that, but there was more to it. First, it wasn’t like Jess and I were married. I had taken my vows seriously with my first husband–I was in it until the end, no matter what happened. I loved Jess, but he was younger, and I didn’t expect that kind of loyalty from him. When we first started dating (right about the time I started putting on weight again), I had worried even a few new pounds would disgust him and send him packing. But he was loyal, and it never felt like he was just putting up with me. He made me feel sexy, made me feel wanted for the first time in a long while.

That was why I felt safe enough to give up on trying to squeeze myself into nicer clothes and tugged on a pair of leggings and a tank top with a low neckline, and tell him point-blank I was having wardrobe troubles. Hey, I think we might need to adjust our plans tonight. I’m getting a little too hefty for what’s in my closet again. 🙁 I couldn’t have imagined telling a man something like that not too long ago, but it felt freeing to be so open.

His reply was immediate. We can do a fancy celebration some other time. Am I still picking you up at 7? He made things so easy. No argument, not even a trace of irritation. Lyla might’ve told me my expectations were too low, but I felt like they were just right. (I also felt a little smug knowing I’d been happily dating the same man for two years and my daughter couldn’t seem to find someone for more than a short fling. It was petty and maybe it made me a bad mom, but I couldn’t help it!)

I tidied up my bedroom, tossing the clothes I knew I’d outgrown into a bag to donate later, and headed downstairs. Even though Jess would be arriving in about 45 minutes, by habit I headed to the kitchen for a snack. It’s funny, I can’t remember when that started. I used to pride myself on going as long as I could without eating, and snacking between meals had been completely out of the question. Even at meals, I would’ve had to carefully portion everything out to ensure I wasn’t overeating. Now, pulling a bag of brownie chips from the cabinet and eating straight out of the bag while I thought about what I wanted for dinner felt mundane. Funny how that works.

I could hear Skinny Me rearing up in my mind, telling me I was making a pig of myself, that I ought to save the calories for dinner, how could I eat sweets when I’d outgrown my clothes again–blah blah blah, nothing new there. It could be hard to quiet that voice down, especially on days like this, but it was getting easier all the time.

Of course, that voice wasn’t entirely wrong. It wasn’t like me getting fatter was some inevitable consequence. There was a universe where I’d kept up my diet, continued to sweat through intense workouts, and kept my slim figure. There had been a point when, consciously or not, I’d traded palmfuls of almonds for orders of extra-large fries (extra salt, please and thank you); time at the gym with time in bed with my boyfriend; constant self-loathing and fear of weight gain with a newfound comfort with my body, however soft it became. In the back of my mind, I knew that if I really wanted to, I could be thin again. I’d gone from fat to thin before, and kept myself that way for decades, even after pregnancy.

For the first time in my life, though, I realized I didn’t want to be thin. Not more than I wanted to enjoy myself, anyway. I liked ordering whatever I wanted at restaurants and not counting the calories. I liked eating until I was past full and getting pampered by Jess afterward. I liked ordering my own dessert and eating every last bite. I liked going to the community pool and lying on a lounger in my bikini instead of swimming laps. And, weird as it might be, I even liked my body.

Even when I was thin, I hadn’t really been able to say that. I’d always been at war with it. Constant vigilance against any indulgence or slack had been a requirement. All that made it hard to enjoy myself. Now, I sometimes found myself running my hands over myself when I was alone, literally embracing my own curves. There were some things that were a little harder these days, but that was outweighed by the fact that I was actually enjoying myself.

I mean, maybe that was just my hungry tummy talking, but even if it was, so what?

My hand hit the bottom of the bag of brownie chips and I tossed it in the trash before hunting down some other treats.

While I was in the middle of my second pack of Ho-Hos, Jess arrived. I greeted him with a big hug and a kiss. He actually lifted me up and gave me a little twirl, and I joked that I was glad at least one of us was still going to the gym.

Lyla happened to come down right then, not sparing either of us any attention. “Aren’t you going to say hi to Jess?” I asked.

“Hi, Jess,” she said absently as she headed to the kitchen.

I rolled my eyes and mouthed “kids” to him. I no longer hounded Lyla about her weight (I wasn’t exactly one to talk, after all), but that didn’t mean I wasn’t still her mom. We headed out, talking idly about what we might get to eat for our anniversary dinner as we got into his car. He reached out for my hand as he took me to my favorite burger joint and smiled at me, and I felt butterflies in my stomach.

I was glad to be fat and happy.