By Baby, My Body: The Aftermath

9 months pregnant

"Tell me what it's like to have your body back," sighed my (very) pregnant friend. She was sitting cross-legged on her couch across from me, almost as round as she was tall. Her two year-old was napping in her bed while my baby dozed quietly on my chest; we had a minute to enjoy some adult/pregnant/girl talk.

"It's nice to tie my own shoes!" I told her. She nodded wistfully.

"Tell me more," she said dreamily. We both laughed.

"I can see my lady bits," I began, "and I can clip my toenails, and..." You get it.

But the conversation really got me thinking: do I ever really "get my body back?" Do I want it back? 

Before I had a baby, my body and I were at odds. I spent a lifetime (beginning in early childhood) developing a very co-dependent relationship with food. I ate when I was happy, when I was sad, when I was anxious--and all of these were learned behaviors. I struggled with my weight from an early age, as did my parents and their parents. In childhood I was a food sneaker, and often I felt like cookies were easier to understand than other kids. I was an unusual mix of shy and extroverted, and although I used humor to try to distract other kids from my issues, I preferred books over playtime. I was head and shoulders taller than every kid in my class until junior high, with bright red hair and bad skin. No matter what I did I "stood out like a sore thumb" (as my mother still likes to point out). 

6th grade, at the height of awkwardness

In high school I gained some confidence as my body balanced itself out. Suddenly the boys were noticing the boobs I'd had since girl scout camp, and the smaller waist that had taken shape over the summer. But self-doubt still plagued me, as did a growing body image issue. I hid my figure behind baggy boy clothes. I envied girls in tight jeans showing off their high-school-perfect bodies while I spent hours in the bathroom mirror cursing my round belly and plump thighs.

As an adult, after thousands of dollars worth of therapy, my body and I had developed a fair relationship. I'd finally figured out how to dress myself, opting for form-fitting clothes that flattered my good parts. I married a man who loved my body, and told me so. I had been diagnosed as a "binge eater," and took medication to help ease my depression and curb my binges. I had developed a sort of forced confidence, and it served me well--other women envied my sense of self, and men found it sexy. This conviction was something I hid behind, often forcing myself out of my comfort zone in order to keep up appearances. I had created a woman I had always wanted to be: sexy and confident, well-liked and envied. I was terrified to get pregnant, to completely lose control of my weight and the image I'd created for myself. I didn't know if it was possible but I was sure I'd hate my body even more once that belly started to grow.

I was wrong.

I started to "show" at about three months. That soft little belly represented the tiny life growing inside me. I adored it. I didn't mind the spider veins that appeared on my hips and legs, and I certainly didn't mind my plumping breasts. And the bigger I got, the sexier I felt. In my mind I was the perfect picture of youth, vibrancy, and fertility. During those nine months I loved my body more than ever before, and I felt better about myself than I ever thought possible. I was glowing, I was beautiful, and I was making a little life inside me. Every day, every pound, was a miracle.

My daughter is almost three months old now, and I'm about 10 pounds lighter than I was when I got pregnant. I look at my naked body often, with a new sense of respect. This body made a human, from scratch. This body makes food for that tiny human, every single day. I have eyes that can watch her and keep her safe, ears that hear her cues and tell me she's hungry, strong arms that rock her to sleep when she needs soothing, hands to change her and dress her and stroke her hair, breasts that feed and comfort her...my heart doesn't beat for me anymore, it beats for us. 

My old body was selfish, and jaded. My old body never knew what it was capable of doing, or withstanding, or creating. My old body was a spoiled child that took itself for granted. 

I'm over that body. I don't want it back. And the reality is, that body stopped belonging to only me as soon as I got pregnant.

My new body is a little plumper, a little softer, and maybe a little scarred. But to me, my new body is more beautiful, more perfect than it ever was...and I'm much happier in it than I ever imagined.

11 weeks post baby