Skinny.
Cuss word of all cuss words.
I just had a baby, and as much as that should cloud my judgement it has clarified it. You see, I can feel as downtrodden about my physical appearance right now as I did days before Sweet Pea started forming, when I was the "skinniest" I'd been in years.
There is an obvious pattern here. Basically, I feel incredibly insecure about my appearance, no matter what, at any given time. You know, all the time. But given enough time and distance--years upon years, I'll allow myself to look back and say, Dang, girl. You looked good! And then ruining the moment I add on, If only you still did.
As mean as I am about my rolls and reflection, I feel just as empowered by my body's strength and vitality. Lil' Bit was keeping me company while I was showering this morning--you know how lonely a hot, quiet shower can be when you're nursing and nurturing around the clock--and she asked when my belly would shrink back to normal, with a bit of a wince in her expression. These moments are pivotal for my little women. Will I wince as well, and plant a seed of insecurity in her own heart?
No ma'am, I will not.
Instead I told her that as silly as my belly looks, I love it. It has held five human souls and that is probably the most incredible thing I will ever be a part of. (And then we named our Heaven Baby, because she wants to have a name for when we think of him or her.)
My husband is incredible in this area. After giving birth the first time.....once I realized my stomach would never look the way it did before....and I was only 22......and I hated myself....he amazingly, graciously swooped my delicate self-image into his arms and carried me over the threshold from barely-a-womanhood into motherhood. For the first of a thousand times, he told me that he loved my belly because it brought Li'l Bit to our world. That it was awe-inspiring, strong, a miracle, a gift. Although I felt utter relief and gratitude that he was not disgusted by me, I couldn't see it. I didn't get it. For my own security I have since elicited his proclamation of adoration on numerous occasions. But only now, after nine years and three more big, full-term babies, I think I finally agree with him.
Am I excited about losing the rest of this baby weight?
Yes.
Am I trying to do so everyday?
Yes.
But am I hating my body all along the way?
No.
I am taking almost every healthy step I can to care for this vessel. It is very hard to care for something you hate.
I'll say that again: It is very hard to care for something you hate.
I have actually been surprised by how smoothly these first few, ahem, dozens-of pounds have come off. It makes total sense now. Hating my body only lends itself to a vicious cycle of hunger, depravity, and punishment followed by over-indulgence, guilt, and shame. It is not only unhealthy but also entirely unproductive. Like a lot of women I have spent most of my years stuck in that cycle. It's miserable, y'all. I don't want to be there anymore.
I don't want to spend the rest of my life there.
This has been the first postpartum period in which I have truly appreciated and honored my body for what it has done for our family. I am feeding it good things whenever it is hungry. I am trying to lay it down whenever it needs rest. I am slathering it with sweet smelling soap and flattering it with make-up. I am adorning it with clothes that feel good and look good. And as soon as my baby cooperates, I will take it to the gym and do that which makes all of me feel better--namely, that work-out-concluding visit to the sauna.
What's different about this postpartum period? Why now and not before? Well that, my dears, is a whole other discussion. One I hope to find time for sooner rather than later.
But for now, I am proclaiming a new resolution: when I look back at pictures from my life I want to see the souls, the life, the love, the events--the memories at the center. Not my waist and number of chins.
By taking care of myself, I take my self out of the center.
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| You can just imagine the stretch marks this big girl caused. |
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