About a week or two after Margot was born we took her to meet her great-grandmother, Warren’s maternal grandmother. I went in front, carrying Margot in her car seat, Warren bringing up the rear with the over-packed baby bag. Walking through the door I held up the car seat, expecting the usual oohs and ahhs, but was instead met with a pat on my abdomen and, “You’re going to have to lose that belly.” My husband didn’t hear what his grandmother said; I relayed it after, but he wasn’t surprised. At about two weeks post-partum, I didn’t expect to look like I did pre-baby. Hell, I never lost any of the Lily weight (about 20 pounds). My organs hadn’t even returned to their usual places and I’ve never been a skinny lady, so I really wasn’t expecting another woman to body shame me in such an outward manner. I countered with a smile and a nod because, really, she’s in her 90s, she gets a pass.
The pass ended this week when, at 3 months post-baby, having lost all of the weight (that’s right, I’ ve lost 45 pounds, yay me), I was met with, “You’ve still got that stomach.” This time I pushed back a little, gently reminding her that I’ve lost a lot of weight, that it’s only been 3 months, and she agreed, reminding me that I had a section and that can be hard to recover from. She’s still in her 90s-her pass is restored.*
I really have lost 45 pounds in 3 months. That’s such a strange thing to admit to. Maybe I need a Girl Scout’s patch or badge or whatever my mother used to sew onto that horribly brown Brownie sash to remind me and show to everyone who looks at my bloated belly and thinks I do nothing but sit on the couch eating chocolate all day long, guess what world, I lost 45 pounds in 3 months, and it is a fucking effort-full accomplishment. I work for it. I eat 1200-1300 calories a day, I go to the gym 5 days a week, I push Margot on long walks (so far 5 miles is our one-day record). I miss cheeseburgers on a near daily basis and pass Bobby’s Burger Palace with lust rays bursting out of my eyes. I watch all the hard bodies at my gym with the same questioning intensity that they watch me. We silently judge each other the way all women appraise one another. Maybe one of them is hungry and would like to accompany me for a cheat cheeseburger? No judgements-just deliciousness.
I’m lucky; my self worth has nothing to do with how I look. It’s nice to lose weight and fit into clothes I was wearing a full year after I gave birth to Lily, but, ultimately, I don’t really care. I am I, and I am still overweight, and I’m okay with that. I’m proud of the person I am, I’m thankful for my healthy, brilliant, beautiful children (and family), I’m grateful for the kind of life I lead, and I’m crazy in love with my wondrous husband who couldn’t give two shits about the way I look, because, as he oft reminds me, he likes me for me, blessed union intact, pun intended.
Of course I’m just like everyone else and I have my days where I hate everything and the scale was clearly sent here on a mission to destroy me, but then I look at my stretch marks (like rings on a tree, I swear) and I remember that my body did this incredibly amazing thing. It created and cared for and birthed two fully-formed human beings! I’m never going to be how I once was and I don’t want to be, because skinnier Allison did not create life.
|Our family :)|