Sexy cow

Went into town today with Neil and Albie. I left them in Costa so I could run a few errands and felt as free as a bird spending my life savings in 'Boots' and, what better, treating myself to new underwear. Yes, that's right, more nursing bras....
As I walked down to see if M&S had started stocking any bras with more thought gone into the design than a pair of long-johns, 3 lads walked past me, whistled and said 'nice arse'. I'm not sure if they were being tongue-in-cheek but I have been working out very hard lately and I thought that maybe, just maybe, they might have meant it. Well, I say I've been working out but what that actually entails is running on the spot in my own living room for 30 mins next to a moses basket, after wasting a ridiculously long time customising my own avatar.
I find it a little bit wrong somehow getting wolf-whistled as a mum. I feel like mothers should have a little more respect than that, like the kind you'd give a war veteran or something. Of course, I am in no way comparing myself to a war veteran, but I feel like I've just done something extraordinarily hard that deserves something more. On the other hand, the opposite sex still finds me attractive and I'm a little relieved that having a baby hasn't turned me into an ogre.
This is one of the things that I'm struggling with the most; my identity as a woman has been flipped on the head, like I've been slapped in the face with a giant sized nursing bra. Am I to be seen as attractive, or as a mother? Am I aesthetic or functional? I still want to feel good about myself; I want my husband to still find me attractive; I want to go out on a night out and feel good in a dress without the need for giant hug-in pants and I want to choose an outfit based on what looks good and not what is practical. I've noticed a lot of mums go to the extreme and either become some sort of 'glamour mum' or else find the thought of juggling another 'job' of choosing outfits and colour coordinating clothes so impossible that they just give up and go out in the equivalent of a brown paper bag. I'm not sure which category I fall into yet as I feel like a mish-mash of a young woman and a dairy cow. Still, at least I can still get a wolf-whistle, which would make me feel a little bit better if I weren't holding a carrier bag full of beige maternity bras.