There have been many times in my life when a questioning thought has passed through my head but never vocalized. It wasn't important. It wasn't my business. I forgot. It wasn't appropriate. Whatever the reason, the question wasn't asked. I remember some counsel shared by a youth leader many years ago, warning us against asking a particular question of any woman unless you knew for certain that the response would not bring with it embarrassment for both parties involved in the conversation. I'm sure most of the women reading this blog (and I'd hope the men, too) know which particular question I'm referring to..."When is your baby due?"
When my mom was pregnant with my older brother, she had her picture taken with her dad, my Papa, holding a watermelon in front of his belly. Cute and pregnant, the picture is a classic. I love it. I tried to duplicate the picture with myself and Brian at the end of my pregnancy. Huge and swollen as I was, the picture is not worth wasting your eye sight on. So I'll spare you.
The whole pregnancy/postpartum experience has been a first for me, and naively, I assumed that within a few months of giving birth I would be looking, well, at least more normal. And nursing your child is supposed to melt the pounds away, right? Lucky for you if that's the case. I haven't been one of the blessed few, my waistline shrinking by microscopic fractions of an inch every now and again. So, I suppose it was bound to happen at one time or another. The innocent question that, in my case, incites feelings of sadness and a renewed resolve to do better. The girl at the checkout counter, merely trying to make light conversation, asks me, "When is your baby due?" Sigh. "He's six months old." Embarrassed pause. "Oh...well, congratulations!?" On to the real point of this post.
I could wish to be the moms I see who don't even look like they had a baby. I could wish that nursing would suck every nasty fat cell off my body. I would even settle for wishing that I didn't look like I'm still six months pregnant. But wishing isn't any more than that: wishful thinking. And since I have to work for the changes that I want to see, and I don't hold myself accountable to myself as often as I should, I hereby make my journey public. I won't bore you with the day to day, but I will keep a log of my progress. And when I run that race this spring, I'll let you know how I felt as I crossed the finish line. So, here's to the absence of my watermelon and not giving anyone a reason to ask the unthinkable question.
1 week ago