My Body, Myself
The rage I feel at my postpartum shape is changing everything I thought I knew about self-love.
I used to say that I had a thigh gap before they became “a thing.” I know that makes me sound like an asshole, so let me follow that statement up by explaining that I didn’t do anything special to earn or deserve it. The thigh gap mostly has to do with the way my thighs are shaped and the Petrovic metabolism I’ve been blessed with since birth.
I exercise and generally eat well (although a lot—two HUGE meals that should not fit yet somehow do), but I’ve never worked particularly hard to look the way I look. If I ever wanted to tighten up, I’d take an extra yoga class or go for a run and stop eating bread for a few days. It was always easy and never complicated to maintain the shape of my body, and as a result, I have a lot of skinny white girl privilege. I still do. Except my body has changed.
My postpartum form is definitely not the same shape as the one I wore for the better part of 34 years. My arms are bigger and less jacked. The lower part of my belly sticks out in a new way. My soft and amazing tits are down farther than they used to be. And if you’ve been anywhere near me in the aftermath-of-birth times, you’ll have heard me say (with a touch of frantic desperation) that “I am down to my pre-pregnancy weight but the weight is in different places.”
I don’t hate it, exactly, but I’m sure as fuck not thrilled about it either. Sometimes, if I’m being completely honest, I’m downright enraged. How dare this baby change my body! Was it not enough to rewire my brain?! Apparently, it was not.
Now, if you’re reading this and thinking…why would this weird woman think that her body would be exactly the same after projectile birthing an eight-and-a-half-pound baby? Keep in mind that my pregnancy was a dream. I had obliques until the end. My feet didn’t grow, and although my belly obviously stretched, I didn’t have the marks to show for it. My hair—oh my god, my hair—was so GORGEOUS. It grew probably nine inches and was thicker than it ever has been and all I did the whole time was swing it around and flip it over my shoulder and sashay through the grocery store like I was in a goddamn Pantene commercial.
Basically, none of these things are true now. My feet are exactly the same, and my above-the-button belly is lovely enough, but everything else has gone to hell in a handbasket. Am I the only woman on the planet that got stretch marks after giving birth? Dear lord, whyyyyyy? And my hair? My beloved hair? A fucking nightmare. I can’t even really talk about it. That’s how devastated I am. And taken as a whole? I’m mad as hell. It feels so unfair. I don’t want to give my baby back, but I’d really like to see the manager about this whole postpartum period. I’m thisclose to demanding a refund or, at the very least, some significant in-store credit.
To that point, let me tell you what isn’t helpful to hear from people, particularly other mothers who should fucking know better: But you have a beautiful baby to be grateful for! All these changes are totally worth it. Um…ARE THEY?! My baby is worth it, yes. A million times over. Even knowing what I know now, I’d still choose her every time. But I don’t know that I can just meditate my feelings about my mombod away with gratitude.
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