Some days I look at you and I despise you. Your perfect barren body mocks mine which has been scarred by childbirth twice over. Your breasts sit high upon your chest, two pert mounds, braless, and yet they don’t sag near your stomach button.
Your make up is impeccable, your teeth gleam in a way which makes me want to pull my lips over mine and hide them away. I’m not sure but I think you wear a size zero, whereas I am closer to a two zero than a zero zero.
Your nails although untouched by colour are perfectly filed and even your feet feel smooth and delicate.
You are the stuff many men dream off and have the body most women could never achieve.
My daughter adores you, she openly embraces you and tells you how beautiful you are.
But today I found your weakness.
Like hercules it is in your hair. When I met you it was perfect, glossy and sleek like a conditioner advertisement. But now after twin girl has pulled you into her bed, trotted you round the garden and taken you in the bath it has become, quite simple, hair that feels like a horses mane.
Mine smells like strawberries after it has been washed, I can brush it till it shines, I can make it like yours once was. My daughter can brush it lovingly, she can’t even get a comb through yours. For this she will always see me as a real woman and you as an empty, plastic doll…
In your face, Barbie!
From a slightly bitter, chubby, mummy.