Mud Flaps

My brain is a highly-functioning self preservation organ. 

 

Here I am, 7 months post-partum and I can’t remember feeling this awful about the state of my body at 7 months postpartum with Charles.  Oh, I know I probably did, as I have agonized over my weight and appearance most of my adult life (there was a nice period right before I got married and then until I conceived Charles during which I was at what I consider to be my ideal weight).  But, you know what?  I don’t actually remember it.  I don’t remember what my body looked like at that stage, when Charles was chubby and learning to crawl.  If I looked then like I look now, then I can tell you that I felt awful about it, so it’s just as well that I don’t remember.

 

I didn’t work out then like I do now.  Though I was about to start, since when Charles was 7 months old it was the beginning of summer and I could go for long runs with the dog and I started doing The 30-Day Shred and I walked all the time.  I also don’t have many photos of myself before about 9 months postpartum, since that’s when I started to feel good enough about myself to not duck out of them.

 

So I don’t know if I am on track to get back to that size 6, that 135 lbs, or not.  The body in the mirror does not look anything like the picture of me in my head.  This is, for all intents and purposes, a good self-defense mechanism (thank you again, brain).  When I go out, I don’t think about how jiggly I am.  I forget that every item of clothing I own has spit-up stains on it.  I’m merely focused on getting the kids where they need to be, swim lessons or gymnastics or various appointments, or going to the grocery store, or getting as much work done as I can in the time allotted, or going back to work with the kids because there’s always more to do, or thinking about what to make for dinner, what order to do the laundry so we have clean diapers to get through the night, who needs a nap and who needs a snack, and so on, and so on, and so on.

 

But when I’m in my room, having torn off my sweaty running clothes before I get in the shower, I look at my body and I don’t even recognize it.  And it is so ill-proportioned, and so flabby, and just so wrong that I’m hit with a wave of futility.  What’s the point?  What’s the point of all the running if I am still so far from looking like me?  Why do I have a gym membership if there’s no hope of me losing any weight before Jamie is done nursing?  Is it even possible to lose the extra stomach skin/fat after two babies?

 

Also, I have very little willpower when it comes to food – oh, I eat well, I don’t eat junk, but I can’t limit myself.  And I can’t eat only veggies.  I just can’t.  You try nursing a baby and dieting at the same time.  Probably not impossible, but it is miserable.

 

*Sigh*  There’s just no winning this right now.  I know that I have to keep going, keep working out, keep ignoring the jiggle when I’m out, because only time is going to help me lose weight and inches.  Still, it’s hard to have your worst fears about how you look confirmed by your child.  This morning, Charles said, “Mommy, you got a BIIIIIG butt!”  Yeah, sweetie.  I know.  I’m working on it.