Here’s the deal, people.
As a result of my last pregnancy, three years ago, I’m fat in a way I didn’t imagine. However, in seeing what my gene pool had to offer in terms of the way my body would morph after pregnancy, I really shouldn’t be surprised.
I’ve never been thin. I’ve always been one of the bigger girls in my group of friends. I was the smallest I’d been since high school when I got married and I rocked a bikini on my honeymoon. Was I the skinniest girl at the pool? Hell no. Not even. But I was confident. I felt beautiful. My stomach, while in no way defined, was smooth. There wasn’t a giant pouch of flab hanging over my bikini area.
Basically, I didn’t have a FUPA. And now I do.
Now, the entire lower section of my stomach, from belly button to c-section scar, is one giant mound of stretch-mark riddled flab. It’s ugly. I hate it. I hate it so much I don’t even like to look at myself. Ever.
(And do not even get me started on the progesterone-fueled zits clogging up my face, arms, neck, and back. I wish I were joking.)
I’m cursing the fact that I was on medication for depression that made it nearly impossible for me to lose a few pounds. I’m cursing the fact that when I came off of that medication, my PCOS came back and the imbalance of those hormones also made weight loss difficult without starving myself or being a slave to the elliptical. And despite the fact that I have those other things to blame, I’m cursing myself for not being more serious about doing something about it earlier this year when I set out to do something about it.
And “they” say “but, Miranda, your body grew a human! It did something amazing! It’s growing another human! YAY!”
People, on what planet, exactly, is that supposed to boost my self-esteem? Because it doesn’t. I mean, it’s awesome that my body can do this, truly, but why are mothers expected to give up their self-esteem and ideal body image when they have kids? Like the mom’s body doesn’t matter anymore? How is that even remotely okay? I didn’t stop becoming a person with real emotions about this when I had Joshua, you know? It’s not like he makes the flab okay.
Right now, nothing I own fits and I am miserable.
Maternity pants are either too tight or too loose. The waistbands push my fat up and out, making me look misshapen and malformed. Like I have Quasimodo-stomach or something. If I pull the waistband up to prevent this from happening, it clearly looks like I’ve shoved my fat into my pants. Which I have. You can see the space between my stomach flab and my legs and I’m about two steps away from finding myself on People of Wal-Mart.
My regular pants are too tight. Everywhere. And that was as much a problem before finding out I was pregnant as it is right now.
Right now I am fat-pregnant and I feel ugly. I want to be able to put on some clothes and go eat dinner (a sensible one) with my husband and son without having to change my clothes three times. I want to be able to grab something out of the closet in the morning and not think “I hope no one notices that I wore these pants yesterday, but they’re the only comfortable ones I have so screw it.”
I want to not be fat right now.