Pregnancy was weird. I never felt that one with nature maternal glow that I heard so much about. As someone who has struggled with her weight her entire life, pregnancy was bizarre. I was conflicted with this mixture of feelings of paranoia about gaining too much weight along with a fear of being a bad mom if I didn't eat enough good food to ensure that my children were born healthy and at term. For the first time in my life I peered down at my growing belly and was actually a little bit excited about it.
By month eight my commute into work was epic as I glared at other commuters who didn't offer their seats.* By the end I could barely walk or sleep. I just waddled around eating endless quantities of antacid for my constant heart burn.
The experience of having children on your body is comparable to that moment in Alice In Wonderland where Alice grows giant and then in an instant shrinks down again to what should be her correct size, but something just isn't quite right. I feel like someone took all of my stuffing out and then shoved 75% of it back, just all in the wrong places.**
When pregnant I had this arrogant Yeah Right attitude when people told me that it takes a long time to get your body back post pregnancy. I knew I'd have stretch marks, I knew I'd have loose skin, but there are some other things I didn't expect. And I know I am lucky that running after two children and long colicky stroller walks has landed me weighing five pounds less than pre-pregnancy me. I thought that it was simple math - that if I could get down to my pre-pregnancy weight that everything would just fit again. I was wrong.
In my twenties when I'd put on a few pounds, but was in weight gain denial, I'd blame ill fitted jeans on my wide hips rather than my wide ass. About a month and a half ago I had to wear my husband's jogging pants out to brunch because of a wardrobe crisis - nothing would go up over my hips, but for real this time. I'm in weight limbo where maternity pants fall down and regular pants won't go up, but have become oddly stubborn about spending money on new pants that I hope won't fit in another month or two anyway. Instead I rotate between the same four pairs of pants hoping that people won't realize even though it is especially difficult to keep your clothes clean when babies keep on spitting up (Molly) and defecating on me (Jack).
So over the next month or so I may become friends with Billy Blanks and Tae Bo again, or at least dedicate some time to some crunches. Cause right now all I want for Christmas is a lower belly that you can't bury your fist in.
*I know that you see me, don't pretend to be asleep, engrossed in a book/ipod or that you aren't sure that I'm pregnant. Bastards.
**Primarily the lower belly giving me a small "front-bum".