Body Image and Having a Baby

I mentioned in an earlier post that Edmund and I are opening the doors to a new potential pregnancy. We're not living around calendars or ovulation charts or anything, but I've still spent the last couple of months mentally preparing myself for pregnancy in case it does happen.

So I thought all about all of it- the sickness, the discomfort, the heartbeat, finding out the gender, everything. I even read back on some of my old blog posts (which was both amusing and....embarrassing) and got a few laughs. But it was like there was an elephant in the room that I wasn't acknowledging to myself, something that's crucial and important to address, yet I still chose to ignore it.

Shitty body image.

I've had it for a long time, as long as I can remember actually. (And that's a whole other can of worms that could make up a billion whiny blog posts. I definitely want to write a body image themed book some day.) It's something my friends roll their eyes at, something my husband desperately tries to convince me against. I'm sure my body issues are not unique, but it doesn't make them hurt any less, and picking myself apart OCD style in front of the mirror is something I fight against every day.

I've said it before: parenting and writing are alike in the fact that the best way to do it is to show and not tell. I knew when I decided to try and get pregnant the first time that I was committing to being an example to my children. I'd have to show them how to be kind, and strong, and empathize for the pain of others. Not some of the time, not most of the time. All of the time.

Body image, I convinced myself, would be the one exception. The thing that I'd have to fake, the dirty secret that I would not allow to transfer over to my kids. It's not possible to just fix yourself, right? So the best I could do was put on a show, and keep my issues behind closed bathroom doors for the rest of my life.

It was a hypocritical decision, but that didn't stop me from doing it since Lily has been born. And looking back, how stupid was I- obviously she wouldn't notice anything at the age of two months.
But then something happened, a few days ago.

I was getting dressed in my bedroom, doing this thing where I try to adjust my waist band perfectly over the pudge on my tummy to make my torso look smoother. I was tugging at my shirt, desperate to make it look looser, because I was convinced that I looked disgusting.

I didn't notice Lily walk in behind me. I didn't notice her observing me in wonder. And when I did notice, when I saw her reflection standing behind me in the full length mirror, I jumped about a foot, which made her jump about a foot and then proceed to burst into laughter. She's only 19 months old, so she had no clue what she'd really seen, but I was fucking shaking.

She thought it was a game, and started gleefully tugging at her shirt. Smiling, I snatched her up, hugged her and kissed her, sent her to her toy box and Daddy in the living room, and went into the bathroom and cried. Hard.

This isn't something I can fake. And if I'm wanting another baby, it's something that needs to be fixed soon. I owe it to everybody, Eddie, my kids, myself.

So I look at old pictures of myself, pictures where I distinctly remember thinking that I looked fat or ugly in when they were taken, and note in fascination how from years in the future, that girl looks just fine, pretty even. And I watch reality shows like Heavy, and Biggest Loser, and feel ashamed of myself and just how "huge" I really think I am.

My biggest fear in life is regret and not feeling satisfied with my efforts if I were to die today. Accepting that I need to do it for myself as much as Lily and my future kids is so hard, but I can do it, and I'll be damned if I don't die trying.

And if I can do it, shit girl, trust me when I say: ANYONE can. Repeat after me: relax, enjoy. Relax, enjoy. Relax, enjoy.....