I remember, right before my twins were born, reading an article on Facebook about the pressure put on women to lose the baby weight at an extreme and unrealistic pace because of these asshole celebrities who come out of the hospital three sizes smaller than they were before they were pregnant.
Yeah, eff that! I remember thinking, in between shoving handfuls of white cheddar popcorn into my mouth. We shouldn’t be made to feel like — on top of growing human beings and feeding them with our bodies, sleep deprivation, and walking around with poop and vomit on us at any point in time — we should have to be back in our pre-baby clothes immediately. That’s ridiculous. We should be celebrated for how strong and absolutely wonderful we are despite our weight.
Secretly, I knew I wouldn’t have to worry — because, like everyone said, I would probably just bounce back. NBD. Just going to grow these humans and be back to my pre-baby self. That’s how it works, right?
Fast-forward to now: My boys are 7 months old, and I’m sitting in the corner of my room, hands around my legs, rocking and whispering to myself, “It’s going to be okay! You is smart. You is kind. You is going to be okay,” while I stare at a pair of pants crumpled on my floor that are four sizes bigger than I’ve ever bought before.
Spoiler alert: They didn’t fit and were then catapulted across the room in a rage of fury.
I put myself out there and bought a real pair of jeans, thinking that after a week of dieting and working out that I would be ready for a pair of pants that I didn’t buy in the maternity section. I was wrong.
And now I’m trying to pull myself together, singing Lady Antebellum’s Need You Now to my old pair of jeans that I doubt I could even get past my knees, remembering the days of less jiggle, fewer dimples, and putting on something other than leggings that I can pull up to my bra to suck in all of the extra stuff happening right now. #sexyandiknowit
On top of the other lies that people told me, like “Kids are the greatest thing that will ever happen to you,” they also told me that if I breastfeed, I’ll lose that excess weight “in no time.”
I’ve been breastfeeding for 7 months now, so one would assume that I would be zipping up non-maternity jeans like a pro by now, right?
Science Google says that you can burn 200 to 300 calories (or more) per feed, which I’m assuming is a bit higher for me since I’m feeding two.
Want to know what happens when your body uses that much energy? You want to eat.
Want to know how much time I have to prepare healthy meals? None. And I wouldn’t make them even if I had the time because carbs soak up my tired tears better than egg whites.
I get that my body went through something amazing and traumatic AF, and it’s going to take me a second to get back. But sometimes, it would be nice to feel like my old self for even just a second.
My hair is still falling out, my nails are brittle, I don’t have the energy to put on makeup or shave my legs anymore, and I’m attached to a breast pump or child around the clock. I’m trying to adjust to a lot of new things. And while I’ve adjusted to sleeping very little, having to adjust to a newer and bigger body that sometimes still hurts from a surgery seven months ago is not on the list of things I want to do.
Why did I even bother attempting jeans, you ask? I was “inspired” because I recently read an article about this mom who ran a marathon, pushing her triplets, and broke a world record.
Like, seriously? You’re telling me that people actually do shit like that? Wow. If she can run a marathon pushing three kids, I can definitely get my ass into some real pants.
Except, I can’t. I’m no longer inspired. I’m just tired. But, to be fair, that’s probably because I’m in a food coma. Ben & Jerry’s The Tonight Dough starring Jimmy Fallon ice cream and cheeseburgers will do that to you.
Whatever. Real pants are for losers anyway.