One unexpected gift of being pregnant
A few weeks ago, my husband, Dan, and I took our last vacation as non-parents — what the kids these days call a “babymoon.” We went to West Palm Beach, Fla., where the average high temperature in mid-March hovers in the mid-to-upper 70s. The drapey dresses, baggy sweaters, and leggings I’d been wearing for the past five months wouldn’t fly there. I didn’t have any warm-weather maternity clothes. And if I wanted to go in the pool or the ocean, I’d have to wear a bathing suit. There was no getting around it: The massive changes my body had been going through would be going public. I’d have to show my belly. And I absolutely hated the idea.
I’ve had body image issues for as long as I can remember. As a teenager, I avoided the neighborhood pool. I’d lounge on a chaise in my back yard and cool off with a spritz of the hose if I wanted to work on my tan. The only time I wanted anyone to see me in a bathing suit was for swim practice or a meet — and even then, only if I couldn’t put a towel around my waist to hide my gut and thighs. I lost a little weight during my senior year of high school but gained it all back — and then some — starting my freshman year of college. Even after I shed 30 pounds while training for a marathon eight years ago, I hated looking at or exposing my body. It was never good enough. It was never thin enough.
I managed to keep most of those 30 pounds off until late last September. Since then, my body has had two jobs: gaining weight and growing a baby boy. I knew I’d have to accept getting bigger — there’s nothing I could do about that. But I expected I’d be able to keep running and swimming, if for shorter time periods. I swore I wouldn’t completely let myself go. Then, in December, I learned I had a stress fracture in my right foot. By the time that healed, I’d completely fallen out of my routine. For the past four-plus months, the extent of my exercise has been an occasional prenatal yoga class and one, maybe two, walks of my dog every day.
At the same time, I started getting texts, emails, and social media messages half-jokingly, half-seriously asking me where my baby bump pictures were, and when could they see them? I didn’t know how to tell them I could barely stand to look at myself. I’d quickly wrap myself in a towel as soon as I got out of the shower. I’d cast my eyes down when passing any mirrors or windows. So the idea of exposing my newly untoned legs and arms, not to mention the soccer ball poking out of my abdomen, while in Florida ignited some serious anxiety.
But as I pulled off my beach coverup and settled into a poolside lounge chair on the first day at our B&B, I didn’t feel any of the telltale symptoms of self-loathing. I was well aware that the new fat on my legs jiggled as I walked around. I just didn’t care. As we approached the gates of the Ballpark of the Palm Beaches to watch the Nationals play the Astros, I could feel my pre-pregnancy-sized Curly W shirt stretched tightly across my stomach. I just didn’t care. As I passed by the spotless windows of the high-end shops that line Worth Avenue one afternoon, I’d catch my lumpy figure in the reflection sometimes. I just didn’t care.
I figured this feeling — or lack thereof — could be blamed on being on vacation, far away from anyone who knew who I was (except for Dan, of course). But inexplicably, it hasn’t gone away, and we’ve been back in Baltimore for almost a month.
Here at home, my belly pokes out of my work dresses and peeks over my gym shorts. My neighbors, coworkers, friends, family, and acquaintances are free to see the weight I’ve gained. I don’t mind catching my now-basketball-sized bump in the mirror. I actually spend a few extra minutes each morning resting my hands on it. I’m amazed at how tough the skin feels, and I try to imagine what’s going on in there — what our little boy is seeing, hearing, thinking, eating.
In the back of my mind, somewhere, I’m worried about whether I’ll be able to fit into my pre-baby clothes. I wonder if and when I’ll start freaking out about being overweight, or fearing that I won’t be attractive to my husband, or fretting that I don’t have time to exercise AND raise a newborn AND keep a job at the same time. Magically, though, those thoughts seem to be behind a locked door right now. I don’t know why this feeling happened or how long it will last. But for the first time in my life, I’m pretty much at peace with my body. If the price I have to pay for that is a rather painful visit to the hospital in nine weeks, well … it may be worth it.