…to give myself a bit of a break.
You see after having had my fifth (yes shock, horror) baby I am not in a happy place with my body right now. I tend to be reminded of bread dough left to proof too long when I look at my naked self before getting into the shower. All soft and doughy and misshapen. I don’t use the word hate lightly, but I hate what has happened to my body through five pregnancies and four breastfed babies.
Here’s the thing though, and it really is important to look at the other side of the coin. My body is freaking incredible. It has grown five healthy babies. My body has nourished my babies in their early days. It has cradled sick children, hugged them when they have done well. It has carried me through sleepless nights and hectic jobs.
My body has shown my husband affection and held him up when he was weak. These ‘ol jiggly thighs have worked to carry me through financial woes and bad hair days. This wobbly, stretched out tummy has served as a pillow to my children and while less than the ideal that is painted in the media, every scar (three c-sections) and every stretch mark and discoloration serves to remind me of gentle kicks and the feeling of my babies having hiccups while pregnant.
So while I hate my body, I do need to remind myself I had a baby only 11 weeks ago, hell in pregnancy terms I would not even be past my first trimester. It took me nine months to gain all this weight, I need to give myself that long to lose it again. Although I have made a good start.
I know I am rambling but I think my point is that we need to learn to give ourselves a break. Yes my body presently leaves a lot to be desired. My husband doesn’t seem phased though it has affected me badly ( zero sexy times round these parts). The plain and simple truth is after having survived a very tough pregnancy with every complication you could imagine and a traumatic birth (must write about it) I am less slob and really more of a super hero. I may not wear spandex over a chiseled body but heroes can also be seen the world over, wearing spit-up stain t-shirts over soft, doughy tummies.
Cheers to the latter for raising the former on little sleep and without any real clue of what we’re doing.