The Things You Do For Love
Dealing with the after effects of pregnancy
It was acceptable when a baby was in there. Random stranger would smile at me. “How long?” they would say, in a half whisper. Like the baby was already in danger of being disturbed. No one tried to touch my stomach, thank god. You’re supposed to be proud of your bump these days, wear stretchy shirts to show it off. Maybe ones that proclaim ‘baby bump’ with an arrow, just so there’s no ambiguity. Family members even asked for photos of my ‘bump’ on facebook. As far as I could tell, they expected regular updates. As far as I could tell, they were serious.
Then the baby comes and at first you feel joyous that the kitchen counter is no longer an arm’s length away and you can once more pass your husband in the hall without giving him a belly whack. Actually, for a while you’re so tired you don’t do much thinking at all. Just the mantra, one more day, one more day. But pretty soon (if you’re lucky) things start to settle. And you decide you’re sick of looking like shit. So you pull out the clothes that you haven’t worn in forever. But of course none of them fit. And you look at yourself in the mirror. And you step on the scale. And, yeah.
There’s a grace period when the baby is really tiny, people except a certain about of podge. It was about two month into babyhood that I began to feel a sort of unspoken expectation. When I looked in the mirror sans clothing I didn’t cry, cause I’m not that sort of person, but I could have. I was no longer pregnant. I was just fat, stretched out, and permanently scarred. The agreement was supposed to be for nine months. Wasn’t that enough? I don’t know how to explain it to someone who hasn’t been pregnant. For nine months my body was not my own—I was never alone. Never. I don’t know if it bothers everyone, but it felt like an invasion to me. And it wasn’t possible to forget because it wasn’t possible to be comfortable. This huge protuberance was pushing into my lungs or my bladder or my ribs or playing uneasily with my stomach or sending cramps through my legs. The simplest things took enormous energy. Standing, bending, breathing.
But nine months. It was finite. Then I’d have my body back.
Except I don’t.
