Getting it Back… sort of.

Others in the fatosphere have been writing (here, and here- if not elsewhere) about the odd language applied to women after childbirth: “getting my/her body back”.

I’m right in the middle of that right now, and I bookmarked Tiffabee’s post weeks ago, wanting to respond but not wanting to write an epic comment. I’m going to try and make sure I only talk about my own experience, here. Mostly because I spent some time recently with a woman who talked about pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting in the second person. “And then you do this, and then this happens to you…” umm. No.

There was, while I was pregnant, a strange sort of ‘otherness’ associated with my body. I know my body pretty well, we’re on good speaking terms. But suddenly, things I thought I knew, I didn’t. I used to know how much room I’d need to fit between chairs in a crowded room, and could plan a route accordingly. I used to know how far I could open the refrigerator door without hitting myself in the navel. I used to know how what foods I liked, how far I could walk without pain, and my shoe size.

Then I didn’t know those things any more. And some of that was because of this other human being, who had taken up residence in my body. I knew other people for whom this sense of ‘other’ was reflected in their nicknames for their unborn babes. A couple of expecting moms I knew talked about ‘the Alien’. One pre-med student referred to the ‘very efficient parasite’. (tee hee).

I know that, for a lot of folks, the way other people lay claim to a pregnant woman’s body is really offensive. Asking ‘when are you due?’ becomes a loaded question- and lots and lots of folks step WAAAY over a line, offering comment, advice, and horror stories unasked, uninvited, and ad nauseum. the extent to which I allowed people to get away with that kind of crap is my own problem, and my own business.

But I did feel that there was a legitimate claim on my body to by made by the babe. And not just in a “mommy can’t have a beer” way. I invited her in there, and we were occupying the same space. My choices affected her. Her movement, and the basic process of growing affected me. We were intimately intertwined- but other. Even then, she wasn’t me.

Getting my body back? Sure. In the way that when even delightful house-guests come to stay, when they leave you ‘get your house back’. It didn’t go anywhere, and I never really lost control. But for a while I had to share. And I am delighted to no longer have an intermittent aversion to black pepper. I’m thrilled to be able to reach my feet in the shower. I look forward to the day when my favourite jeans fit again (much as I appreciate the friend who dropped off a carton of elastic-waist summer clothes, two sizes above my pre-baby size). I eagerly await a time when I am no longer subject to the whims of this tyrant who still rules my sleep schedule (though more benignly than she ruled from within).

But eventually I may get to sleep through the night. And someday, I may be able to hear a small child cry on TV without it causing me physical pain. Whatever body I have at that point, it’ll be mine and mine alone.

So, yeah. I’m getting my body back. Sort of.
My rock-hard abs, flat stomach, pert breasts, and ability to stay out past 11 have, however, gone on permanent hiatus.

6 weeks

At 8:36 am today, Grace hit an important milestone.

She became ~ta-daaaa~ a six-week-old. Which makes her old enough for the child-minding service provided by my gym. At 8:36am today, we dropped her older sister off at day-care and instead of turning left to go back home, turned right- towards the Wellness Centre, and its cadre of eager, waiting child-minders.

This was the first time that my plain old regular un-pregnant body has been to the gym since I first saw those four letters together: H. A. E. S.

Some things were the same as they’ve ever been. I went in with a goal- hoping to walk Xkm in Ymin without killing myself in the process. The numbers don’t matter; slower than at the peak of my strength and endurance, faster than in my third trimester. Despite having set the treadmill to a speed that would hit that target, I kept doing the math in my head, converting displayed miles into kilometers, checking that against the time left. Mental math amuses me.

Some things were vastly different.
The target didn’t rule all. At one point I increased the speed, just because I felt like I could go faster for a while. Then I decreased it, because it felt like it was time to slow down. I was actually listening to my body, and responding.
I ignored the displays of the two treadmills on either side of me. It didn’t matter if I was going faster or slower, for longer or shorter times. This was my time, and no one else’s.
I paid very little attention to the ‘calories burned’ display, except to look for a way to turn it off. And I didn’t drive home thinking about what special treat I could eat with my lunch, having ‘earned’ it at the gym. My lunch will probably still be delicious. I haven’t decided yet what I’ll eat- but that’s a whole separate internal dialogue.

It felt good to enjoy a nice walk- exploring where the limits are of what this body, in this condition, at this time, can do. It felt good to get a bit sweaty. Something about sweaty post-workout breast-milk knocked Grace out for long enough for her to sleep through my long shower. It used to do the same for her sister, if I recall. It felt good knowing that I can walk that far, without hurting myself. The distance I walked on a treadmill today is pretty close to the distance from home to the mall and back. (With the a/c out of commission in my car, I’d probably sweat less walking it than driving).

I still have a long way to go. On my way into the shower, I stepped on the scale. (Still hasn’t moved much since the big drop in Grace’s first week). And I’m pretty glad these jeans fit again. I don’t want to think in terms of weight-loss or jean-size goals, but there is this “baby-weight” that I don’t think of as “mine”. I’m not trying to diet or exercise it away- I’m just sort of waiting for it to go away on its own so I can pass on some clothes to a newly pregnant friend, and dig my box of pre-pregnancy jeans out of the closet.

But still- it felt good to hang out for a while, walking, watching Newsworld, and just spending time along in my own body, and my own head. It’s been a long time. I’ve missed me.
So Grace, happy arbitrary-milestone day.
I love you tons- but a some time without you was pretty great, too.

New Mommy Fatshion

2 1/2 years ago, when Ruth was born, a friend passed down 4 nursing bras along with boxes of baby clothes. Those bras served me well, along with an assortment of shelf-bra tank tops, and other easy-access under-clothing options.

This second time around, I decided that after all that ‘my girls’ have done for my daughters, they deserve a break from pit-and-spit stained hand-me-downs. So on the recommendation of some other new-mom friends, I went to check out Bravada designs. Starting with the basics, I came home with two of these. (In butterscotch and blush butterfly, but I have my eye on black and sky blue, and on one of these, too). Sadly, not quite as cute as the design for the ‘lighter’ breast. But cute. And comfortable like woah!

Yay for Bravado for making such a huge range of sizes. Now I’d just love to see them expand the “sugar and spice” and “exquisite” designs to include the fuller-breasted Mom. Just because they’re being fully functional, doesn’t mean they can’t be pretty, too.

Plus, I found a dress!
Clothing right now is all about the easy access, so I went looking for a shirt-dress, or something with a button front. Instead, I found something with a gathered and tied neckline, in these colours, though the dress itself is not shown.

I LOVE it. I must find and make excuses to be taken out to nice places, so I can wear it. But first I must buy new shoes.

Where else have folks found treasures that make you look and feel great, and ensure easy access for nursing?