I am 12 days postpartum and just coming to terms with the aftermath--the devastation the storm of pregnancy has unleashed on my body. And it is bad.
Oh, I know, pregnancy is a beautiful thing and blah, blah. Quite frankly, I am too tired to care that much. My body looks like Grimace's (the original purple monster) and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.
The funny thing is, as of right now, I don't care that much. Don't get me wrong, I am working out everyday, I am (trying to) eating right and focusing on breastfeeding as opposed to calories, but I am finding it hard to get too upset about my body right now given the more pressing needs I am facing--figuring out work, etc.
Maybe it is because I lost it before. Even though there are currently 30 pounds of flab sitting on my body, I know how to lose weight. Diet and exercise, baby. Next week I will start to run again, the next I will actually follow a decent diet and get back to the gym and by month 6, I will be wondering where all the weight went.
But this is not month 6. This is month one and I am horrified by my stretch marks, my big hips and the fact that none of my clothes will fit me any time in the near future. Didn't I just do this?
I can't help but feel a little angry at the man in my life. He of no body changes, he of no pushing 8-pound humans out. In addition to the hormone cocktail, non-stop breastfeeding and complete uprooting of my life, I am also fat. Super fat. And I got this way in nine months while running more than most people. Do I sound bitter? Perhaps I am.
It is about time the menfolk step up and do some of the heavy lifting around here. And by heavy, I mean me. A little gallows humor does much to ease my soul's burden. Being fat sucks, even if it is only temporary.