Not the fat on the baby. The stuff that's left on me. I know the saying - nine months on, nine months off. Yeah, I should be patient. Yeah, I should be in awe of the fact that my body nurtured and sustained an entire little person who is still living off of milk that I'm creating. Yeah, I should be thankful that I have two healthy boys and that I'm healthy and strong. Yeah, I should remember that the last time around, I didn't lose all of the weight until I stopped nursing. I know. You're right. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
But right now, I am selfishly focused on my desire to zip up my pants without having that little (and sometimes, depending on the pants, and assuming I'm able to actually zip them up, pretty big) bulge over the top. I want to wear a shirt that doesn't have an empire waist without feeling self conscious. I don't want to look like I'm carrying baby number three. I want to fit into my work clothes and be able to button a blazer without the buttons threatening to pop. I want my boobs to return to the size of a more decorous fruit, like an apple, rather than rivaling mutant cantaloupes. Most of all, I want to stop having the disconcerting experience of catching sight of myself in a shop window or in the mirror and thinking, "Oh my lord, that's my body? Seriously?"
There's another mother in my neighborhood - a lovely woman who I truly like, despite my postpartum body envy - who is the around the corner version of Heidi Klum walking in a Victoria's Secret show two months after having a baby. This neighbor had a baby around the same time I had Jonas, also her second, and if I hadn't actually seen her pregnant, I might not believe that she'd been with child just a few months ago. OK, so I haven't seen her in a bikini, and she says she still has a few pounds left to lose, but the girl looks amazing. I'm pretty sure she looks better now than I looked before I got knocked up. It should be motivating to me to see her walking around looking fabulous, but the only thing it inspires is a frustrated desire to eat a brownie because my body is just not programmed to shrink down that quickly.
I'm working on my body after baby. I'm exercising - sort of. I get out for a slow run a couple of days a week, chase a toddler everyday, and squeeze in stomach crunches and lunges between naps and feeding sessions. I'm eating well - sort of. I eat lots of fruit and vegetables and try to have regular meals, but will succumb to M & Ms and pretzels during late night moments of weakness and exhaustion. By 7 pm, my patience and willpower stores have been used up. With little time and less energy and my body's own personal timeline that won't be rushed, it will take awhile. And I probably need to lower my standards. Afterall, I didn't exactly have abs of steel before bearing two children.
My mantra: be patient, it will happen, skip dessert.
Or just eat one small serving of dessert. I guess that makes the mantra a little clunky.
Hey, I'm breastfeeding. I need a little chocolate.