I have never dieted in my life. I have been to a Gym a sum total of 9 times.
Consequently, I have never been slim. Always on the ever-so-slightly chubby side, I knew that an hour-glass figure was always going to be out of my grasp and was smart enough to have never tried to achieve it.
It did lead to a few heart-breaks during school like when once, a bloke who I had a crush on pulled my cheeks and said, ‘Just lose about 4 kilograms and you will land a boyfriend without a hitch.’
I will not lie, I did feel an overpowering urge to throw up on his face, after (obviously) kicking myself for EVER having thought him to be crush-material.
In my non quest for a better figure, I didn’t deny myself anything, also never going overboard eating.
With an aversion to fruits, I HATE them and an overwhelming love of red meat, my ex-boss once questioned me extensively on why she could never tempt me into eating a blueberry/blackberry/raspberry, my answer was always a straight-faced ‘They are too unpredictable, I can never tell if they will be bitter/sour or sweet’
And as everyone who knows me knows, I hate surprises. Of both the give and take varieties.
I have always tried to eat a balanced diet, chock-a-block full of vegetables and lentils. However, everything went pear-shaped (literally) when I fell pregnant.
I was consumed with unending hunger. I could almost, not stop eating. I would have two breakfasts, two lunches and, on most days, three dinners with non stop snacking in the middle.
While other pregnant women would be doubling up with nausea in train compartments, I would be juggling my fourth brownie of the morning with a strawberry milkshake on my way to work. By 11 am I would be hungry again and treat myself to immense plates of spaghetti n meatballs, roast dinners and full English fry-ups.
Unsurprisingly I ballooned.
Mother’s day 2011
From an almost ok 56 kilograms at the start of my pregnancy, I weighed in at 84 kilograms the day I went into Hospital to have R. I could barely walk, managing a small waddle, getting out of bed/chair/ car required herculean effort and my feet were so swollen that I could not wear anything but thong slippers with great difficulty.
It will all go away once I have my baby, I will ping back into shape. I told myself in a loop, paraphrasing what I had read women write about weight gain and pregnancy on popular mommy sites.
R happened, but my weight stayed put. I did lose about 7 kilograms in the first week after giving birth, but hit a road block at 77.
Three month old R on Father’s day 2011
My first reaction was disbelief, complaining to OH that the scales were broken.
‘How can you be so shallow and worry about weight? You look perfect, in fact slimmer than before you had R,’ he said without looking up from FIFA 11 on his phone.
My second reaction was again disbelief, how could this be? Had all the women on forums been lying about their post-pregnancy weight loss? How do celebrities manage to look tinier than before, pushing buggies?
My third reaction was blind panic…what would I wear? I obviously didn’t fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes and had a sum total of 15-ish semi tent type outfits that I could wear. I could also not go on a diet as I was the sole source of R’s nutrition. It was all a big mess.
I would be lying if I said I never thought of putting R on formula milk and going on a crash diet…
Ultimately, I didn’t. I just carried on as normal, though I did scoff more cakes and cookies than usual. The tiny lie I told myself regularly was that I was bf-ing R so it was all right. The only thing I didn’t do was to buy myself a new wardrobe, I carried on wearing my maternity clothes and packed most of my ‘normal’ wardrobe away in the hope of one day fitting back into them.
Life carried on and I forgot about my weight with all the madness that comes with taking care of a baby, a dog and a home swirling around my head. And then last week I read about Jessica Alba and her post pregnancy bulge battle. It wasn’t the gym, but wearing TWO corsets post-childbirth, 24/7 for three months that did it for her. The pictures accompanying the article, trying to flog clothes attested to the fact. Her post-baby body could definitely rival that of a pre-pubescent 13 yr-old boy.
Did I kick myself for not thinking of the same when I struggled with post-natal depression and an extra 30 kilograms? Did she zoom to the top of my list of role models? Did I vow to do the same if and when I had another baby?
No.
I felt pity for her, I felt sad. She spent the first three months of her child’s life sweaty, in pain and (am sure!) extremely uncomfortable and tetchy. How did she feed her baby? Did she ever lie down in the double corset with her baby? That must have hurt! When the baby wanted a snuggle, was it just Lycra, polyester and rigid girdling that she got? Why would anyone want to waste the time, that could otherwise have been spent cherishing, loving and relaxing, obsessing over weight gain and in pursuit of the perfect body?
It was unfathomable.
So, how did I feel when during a phone call yesterday my MIL said that from my holiday pictures, I seemed to have lost not only my pregnancy weight but more? And that she could see my dimples again?
I felt great! It felt like sweet success and it felt amazing. Not just because it happened naturally but because I didn’t let my body didn’t come before my child and my bond with him. And as I had thought, the extra weight that I carried in the first year post baby didn’t impact my life. And that beyond the few days when I worried about my bloated body, it didn’t matter at all.
And that made me happy. I hope Jessica Alba is happy too, for real.
Gurgles and Woofs 