In the eleven months since my son entered this world, these are just a few of the descriptions I’ve given my figure. Though I’m tall in stature, I’ll be the first to admit that my stomach — in all its stretch-marked glory — is about one cupcake away from being capable of the Truffle Shuffle. Seeing that it resembles a saggy butt, I’ve named it the front butt, or Frutt. I now have more than one chin. My boobs are huge yet lopsided — because no matter my efforts, my son insists on nursing primarily from the right one. My butt crack is constantly hanging out of my pants from my Frutt pushing them down.
And you know what? I’m OK with this.
What I don’t understand is why no one else is.
From the time I started showing (which was at three months, thank you, THREE MONTHS), I’ve had all manner of people offering glorious unsolicited opinions on just how much I could possibly weigh.
“Goodness, look how big you’re getting!”
“Oh, I bet you’re having twins!”
“You’re going to have a hard time getting that baby weight off…”
“That is going to be a HUGE baby!”
(And so, yeah, okay, the last one was true, with my boy coming in at 10 pounds, eight ounces, but people didn’t know that before, so shut the hell up.)
I spent doctor’s appointments one breath away from a hormone-fueled rage as the same petite nurse would look meaningfully at me, then at the scale, then back to me and ask dryly, “Do you want to take your boots off?”
No, I don’t want to take my fucking boots off.
Any hope that the fat shaming would disappear once my son was born vanished when I realized that I wasn’t getting much thinner post-baby either. In fact, though I actually lost the weight I put on while pregnant, I hadn’t known that the other weight — like the weight I had put on after quitting smoking two years prior — would rearrange itself into something I had never seen before.
Mostly, I’m okay with this. I gave birth to a big but very healthy baby. Would I like to look better? Well, yeah. But it’s not at the top of my priority list at this moment.
At a recent doctor’s visit for a well-check, I was very matter-of-factly asked if I knew I was overweight. Oh my God, really? I had no idea! After all, I don’t buy clothes and I own no mirrors! Thanks, doc, for telling me!
Maybe this is the entirely wrong attitude to have, and by no means am I claiming to be full of confidence. I stand in front of my closet desperately searching for an outfit that will hide my Frutt at least once a week. I still wear a pair of my maternity jeans from time to time, and I go through my husband’s phone and delete pictures that flaunt my chins.
Some women are lucky to have the weight magically melt off a month after childbirth. I am not one of these women. No matter that I eat healthy, nutritious meals to give proper nourishment to my son, the weight remains. Some women work their asses off to lose the weight, and to them, I give a thousand — sincere — cheers. Me? I can barely handle a day of work, playtime, and household tasks before crashing on the couch with my makeup still on.
What I do have is a husband who loves me unconditionally, flaws and all. I have a beautiful son who I adore. One day, I might lose the chins, the flab, and the Frutt, and I’m sure I’ll — probably — pack away the maternity jeans.
Until then? You’ll find me with my family, doing what I can to enjoy every minute.
Related post: 4 Truths About Our Post-Baby Bodies