After moving to Portland, my body has been on a gradual downgrade into Overweightville. The discovery of greasy Thai food, craft beer and fantastically fried vegan grub is my downfall. I tried fasting, detoxing and numerous weight-loss regimes, but let’s face it. A basket of tater-tots and an ice cold IPA is way better than any sparkling water and carrot stick. No one willingly eats carrot sticks unless there’s a vat of ranch dressing close-by, they have an eating disorder (not a laughing matter), or are on a diet.
For a person like me, getting pregnant was basically my excuse to eat like shit and blame it on my cravings. Cinnamon rolls for breakfast and ice cream for a bedtime treat. Daily. It was bliss and that’s why my pregnancy was so awesome. That and feeling the baby kick, of course. I ate whatever I wanted for the most part and it was only until I found out that I’d gained 40 pounds and could get Gestational Diabetes, that I decided to chill the fuck out and eat some spinach. I still gained 20 more pounds after that, equaling to a whopping 60ish pounds total that I gained in just a mere 9 months. It was awesome. I was glowing. My body was strong and powerful. I was growing a freaking baby inside me for cripes sake. I’d look at myself in the mirror and marvel at how beautiful I looked as a prego vivacious honey.
Then the baby came out and my beautiful glowing body resembled a congealed lava lamp that lost it’s umph. My belly was as flabby as an old lady’s tricep. I’d laugh and my whole abdomen felt like it was going to flap off into the sunset. I wore a belly band for a while to help it not feel so weird. The first few months I didn’t really care. I’d just spewed out a baby from my LOINS people. I deserved a friggin medal, but I’ll gladly take that chocolate muffin instead… Somehow I lost 40 pounds just sitting on my ass breastfeeding my adorable baby.
Now, my darling baby girl is six months and I’m running out of excuses as to why I’m not working on getting back in shape. I’m in love with my baby and I’d rather focus on her rather than my ass. And I’m too good at justifying shit. For example:
- When I’m laying down and she wants to stand, her little feet press into my jello belly and sink like quicksand. It’s extra cushiony for her ankles.
- When I’m holding her in the sling, my belly provides cushion and balance for her to lean on.
- When I’m walking around with her in my arms, my belly is a little hump she can sit on like a throne of majesty.
- While I feed her, my belly helps her not get too close to my NatGeo-sized nipples that she’d choke on if she were any closer. It also helps prop her up so she’s got a cushion to lay on while nursing.
- My magnificent belly also let’s her lay back in my lap as if she’s on the world’s most comfy la-z-boy recliner.
- My belly also gives my boobs a place to rest…
This list goes on and on.
Anyways, it’s no use even thinking of dieting until the holidays are over and the stress of having to hang out with my in-laws even more than usual is over. Until then, I’ll be happily singing to the sweet justification that my belly is just another symbol of the power my body is capable of. There was a freaking baby inside there for cripes sake!
♥
The Bull & the Babe 