Several years ago there was a commercial for a dishwasher that went a little something like this:
A woman bakes a two layer, 9 in. round cake, puts it on a pretty glass stand, and frosts it with a beautiful “frosting peaks all over” technique for which I have no actual name. She then puts this cake in the dishwasher and proceeds to wash the cake. Fast forward through a time lapse, and the glass stand comes out without a single spot or speck of cake- the dishwasher does its job, and then some.
As a child, I remember thinking, “What a waste of cake.” As an adult I somewhat appreciate the sentiment of the commercial, but I still think it was a waste of a perfectly good cake.
My very roundabout point that I am making is that I have been, and always will be, a fat kid. Perhaps not always in physique, but always in mind. And being genetically predisposed to gain weight quickly (only for it to take a VERY long time to come off), pregnancy made for a horribly difficult thirty seven weeks.
I’m sure you have heard the following sentences spoken in regards to pregnancy:
“You can eat whatever you want and you have an excuse!”
“I’m eating for two now.”
“You can gain weight and no one can say anything to you about it.”
None, I repeat, NONE of these sentences applied to me. Despite my (mostly) careful diet during pregnancy, I still gained an astronomical amount of weight, which will take who knows how long to shed. And no, 250 pound woman in the Chili’s booth ordering two entrees, you are in fact eating for one (yourself) and something the size of a shrimp (your baby). Even at your baby’s largest before birth, his stomach literally holds no more than an ounce. I made sure to take in lots of healthy protein, and drink plenty of water, and eat lots of fresh fruit and vegetables (yes, I also had French fries), but never did I have the mentality that I was eating for two. Lastly, I didn’t get to gain weight without a commentary from the office in which I worked. For someone who has been obsessed with weight since childhood, this made the experience all the more miserable. Pair that with the fact that I did make a genuine effort to avoid Krispy Kreme, and you had one grumpy gal on your hands.
Anyone that was within earshot was sure to hear me complain. My mantra since April has been, “Being fat sucks.” My husband was quick to correct me with, “You’re not fat, you’re pregnant.” Though well intended, the delivery jaded the message.
You know those women that are perfectly thin from the back, and when they turn to the side, they have a basketball tummy under their shirts? Their thighs/arms/caboose never grew, just their babies. I desperately wanted that to be me. Granted, I didn’t want to be pregnant at all, but if I had to be, I wanted to be one of those cute moms to be that could model in the Pampers or Dreft ads with stick arms and a round baby bump.
A year ago I had no idea how much I should have loved my body. If I had it today, I would run around naked.
But I suppose that’s the story of our lives (at least mine), right? We don’t realize how great something is until it is absolutely gone. And, truth be told, if I had my December 2010 body right now, I would still find thirty things about it I hated or wanted to change. And after picking myself apart, I would still want a piece of cake.