BEING vs. APPEARING

There's a lot of frustration that comes after having a baby.

I'm not even talking about the taking-care-of-a-newborn part (though, to be fair, babe #3 has shown to be ridiculously easy, so I could be ignoring that frustration because I'm fortunate enough to not have any right now). Personally, as I've experienced with each kid, my baby is born-- and I can't remember life without them. This is wonderful, fulfilling, and warms my being in every way-- except for when I look in the mirror.

You see, when you feel like your baby has been with you forever, you forget that you gave birth four weeks ago, and you need to give yourself time to let your body heal, recover, and restore-- and instead, you look at the sagging stomach, the loose skin, and hear the angry voice in your head telling you that looking six months pregnant is only adorable if you're actually pregnant.

Okay, maybe not "you," necessarily. Me. I. I do all those things, say all those things, hate myself for all those things.

And it's ridiculous. I just had a baby! Not even a month ago. And while I've been exercising for two weeks now, most people actually give their bodies the full six weeks after before starting to work out again, and I'm jumping the gun on fitness and expectations. It's hard to ignore the whispers of the old eating disorder in my head, telling me how my worth is determined by numbers-- on the scale, on the tag inside my clothing, of compliments about how people "can't believe!" I just had a baby.

So how do I ignore them? The whispers, that is. It'd be easy to let them fester. Looking at any magazine at the grocery store, I read promises of tips to "Get toned for summer!", "Get that slammin' beach bod!", all while ranking celebrities based entirely on how they look in a swimsuit, whether they're "deathly thin!" or have "cellulite?!?!!!". Women in power are not celebrated for their decisions or their accomplishments-- instead, there is a commentary on their hair style, what shoes they chose to wore, or if they've gained a few pounds. There is so much pressure on women to appear-- and how they appear seems to speak more loudly than who they are.

To silence the whispers, I instead choose to BE. I'm a mom. A wife. A runner. A social worker. A cook. I clean, I read, I lift weights. I love music, and dancing with my kids in my living room. I love learning about dinosaurs with my almost-three-year-old. I eat the way I eat and exercise, not to appear a certain way, but to improve my chances of being able to do the things I love for a little bit longer. I do it because it feels good when I do, and feels crappy when I don't. I do it because it's healthy, and my body deserves to be treated well.

I was laying on the floor next to babe #3 when my almost-three-year-old sat on my legs. He pulled my shirt up to expose my belly-- my stretch marked, saggy, squishy belly-- and started to mold it in his hands like playdough. My instinctual reaction was to cover my stomach, to hide away the part of me that makes the whispers louder, when my almost-three-year-old stopped and said, "Mommy, (babe #3) was in your belly. And (my eighteen month old) was in your belly. And I was in your belly. We all lived in your belly."

A thought crossed my mind. If a magical fairy elf or whatever floated down and said, "With a wave of this wand, I can make your stomach back to what it was. I can make it so you can have children without the stress it puts on your body. Never again will you have to worry about a pooch, stretched out skin, or awkward muffin tops when trying to put pants on." Eagerly, I'd want to accept-- but she'd continue-- "You will have three children-- but not these three. You won't have these children."

The whispers went away, for that moment. Instead, I felt immense gratitude for the opportunity to be. To be Mom to three precious little boys.

My tensed muscles relaxed. I smiled at him, and said, "Yup. You all lived in my belly. Aren't I so lucky?"