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.