The Farce of Pre- and Post-

I recently had a dream with symbolism so obvious it required no unpacking; I simply woke up, recalled the dream, and nodded my head: yep, sounds like my subconscious.

I was at a gymnastics gym with a big trampoline, where several old high school classmates (guys) were hanging out and doing flips.  In the dream I was wearing what I had fallen asleep in: old yoga pants and an already saggy sleep bra.  As I approached them I became hyper-conscious of my bare postpartum stomach, which looks as if someone stretched my skin down to my thighs, then let go and inserted a fluffy pancake directly underneath.   To combat this self-consciousness, I made a concerted effort to walk toward them with collected confidence and ask – with the nonchalance one uses to ask about the weather – to show me a back flip, “because I used to know how, but then I had a baby.”  I put my whole self into making that baby part sound like I had won an Olympic medal, no effort involved.

But I couldn’t flip.  I’d jump up, then panic; I knew without even trying to rotate that I wouldn’t have the strength I’d need.  I felt broken, but I continued to force an outward appearance of uncharacteristic confidence in front of these guys, who stood around the trampoline with total indifference, who hadn’t been watching anyway.

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I don't remember much from my junior year of high school; I don't remember much from junior high or high school at all, really.  But I do know that my junior year I was an internal mess.  I told Patrick some of this recently in a roundabout attempt to help him understand my brain.  In the mornings I ate one of those Nature Valley granola bars.  For lunch at school I'd eat a large orange and/or cheez-its and/or carrot sticks, or maybe just a salad.  During cheer competition season I'd have practice for two-three hours, which doesn't sound like much until you try jumping, tumbling, keeping all your muscles stiff, and yelling – all at the same time – for two hours straight.  Then after dinner I'd go to the Y and do some cardio until the machine told me I'd burnt 500 calories.  One of my friends had a scale in her guest bathroom, and I secretly weighed myself every time I went to her house.  I tried to get to 100 pounds because a fitness-obsessed teammate said that You should weigh 100 pounds if you're 5 feet tall, and then add 5 pounds for every inch taller you are!  I don't remember much from my junior year of high school, but that foolish standard is stamped into my mind.

Fortunately, eating so little and exercising so much got too tiring.  Unfortunately, the mentality that drove those behaviors stuck throughout high school and college.  If I couldn’t be 100 pounds, I was at least going to be strong and toned.  I’d wear cut-off t-shirts to the gym, partly because I didn’t want to wear the skin-tight tanks I used to wear, but also because if I did core exercises on the physio ball I could see my abs – and people at the gym might too.  If I couldn’t be 100 pounds, I’d at least be the girl who could do a round-off tuck over your head.  It's embarrassing to write, but it's the truth.  How do you spell vain? 

It’s okay to take care of your body.  It’s absolutely okay to want to feel strong, especially when you lug around an 18-pound baby and you have newly creaking joints to support.  But my high school/college self desired strength partly for the sake of appearance; so much of her identity was constructed around that desire, making it far more difficult now to concede to, make way for, accept this postpartum stranger. I act like I’ve already accepted my post-baby body, but acceptance is actually a rocky and ongoing process.  I laugh about my stomach and stretch marks in conversation, but the laughing and the act of nonchalance is really an attempt to convince myself that this new body is beautiful.

I recently tried to do a brief but intense at-home workout.  I picked it from a list of workouts recommended for moms.  Tristan was on a blanket next to me, because he yells unless entertained.  I knew the workout would be difficult, but what made me break into sobs on the floor mid-sit-up was not the realization of how out-of-shape I am – I knew that already.  I broke because I realized I will never have my pre-baby body back.  Everywhere there are workouts and fitness articles targeted specifically at moms, but tell me: what makes a circuit of squats, sit-ups, push-ups, and lunges a mom workout, different from a workout your husband or brother might do?  Nothing but packaging.  Would I have to try so hard to convince myself of my worth if it weren't for that pervasive and deceitful narrative of “Get Your Pre-Baby Body Back!”?  Because whether or not the outline of any number of my abdominal muscles is ever visible again, my body is not and cannot be the same.  Why does the phrase “pre-baby body” even exist?  Pre-baby, post-baby: we draw the baby as some grand dividing line that needs erasing.  Why do we want everything to look as though we never had a baby at all?  I think this question merits some deep reflection.  Why is the first thing we tell so many moms after they’ve confessed the physical difficulties and myriad adjustments post-baby, “Well, [at least] you’ve lost all your baby weight!”? 

Thank you?

The message is viral, and it tends to originate in circles of women:

Facebook photo: "Hot mama!  Wish I could look like that after three kids!"

Blog: "You don't even look like you had a baby!"

Instagram: "You look great in those skinnies!  I'm still in my maternity jeans!"

Twitter: "Off to the gym! #byebyebabyweight"

Small-talk: "You must be nursing; it burns so many calories!"

It's the "grown-up" version of the high school "you're so skinny/pretty!"/"no, not as skinny/pretty as you!" exchange.  Can we please stop this perpetual, self-deprecating blather?  Can't we offer each other some more meaningful praise?  Can we stop portraying ourselves as pretty little things and at least keep motherhood immune to all this talk about exteriors?  

If you've complimented my postpartum appearance, please know that I didn't roll my eyes at you.  I said thank-you and meant it, because I knew you had good intentions.  I’ve also complimented a postpartum mom’s appearance many times.  I am always sincere when I tell a postpartum mom that she looks beautiful.  But I recognize this collective narrative that you and I are upholding, and we need to throw it out. Start over.  Completely re-direct our focus because words are powerful, and right now we are suffocating ourselves with them; the process starts at a very young age for most girls, and it keeps us from gracefully withstanding life's changes.  What we should be saying is, “You are beautiful.”  “You are amazing,” not “You look amazing.”  You are amazing and beautiful because you are a mother – you have the miraculous and incredible body of a mother and with that body came a baby, happy to be next to you on the floor as you work out, the only meaningful proof of beauty, strength, and endurance you need.   

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My nurse took this photo.  When I first saw it, I thought to myself, "Why would you take this?  It's gross.  Don't you see?"  Now when I see it, I think, "Why would you hate this?  It's incredible.  Don't you see?"  And my throat gets tight and I long for that day.