A New Year & New (Old) Clothes

An older entry I never posted (written on 12/30/09)…

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I hate to start the year off with something as vain as appearance, but with all the "eat less sweets" "get back into shape" and other such "resolutions" being tossed around I can't help but look in the mirror.

Not that I want to look in the mirror. Tomorrow Eli will be nine weeks old. That means I've had nine weeks to melt back into my former self. I was cautiously optimistic. But I was also deluding myself.

I gained 51 pounds during my pregnancy. There is no way to sugar coat this number. I far exceeded the recommended healthy "25-35 pound" pregnancy weight gain. From the moment I saw that range I knew there was no way I would exist within it. Twenty weeks into my pregnancy I had already gained 25 pounds.

I knew I was in deep shit.

People will feed you all kinds of compliments as you pile on the pounds in an effort to make you feel less like a hippopotamus. They'll tell you you're glowing, that you look beautiful, that pregnancy agrees with you, that they can't believe how well you're hiding the weight.

Sure.

Meanwhile, you're trying to reconcile the fact that not only is the baby inside your body changing by leaps and bounds on a weekly basis, your body is capable of expanding at a rate you never thought possible. I didn't feel beautiful, except on very rare and brief occasions. By the end of my pregnancy I couldn't see my ankle bones, could barely bend my toes they were so swollen, and even my maternity clothes were too small--the most depressing development of all.

It didn't help that as my pregnancy progressed people around me were popping out their babies and returning to their pre-pregnancy weight in four to eight weeks. Sure, they might have been hiding their leftover stomach pooch (not that I could discern one), but they were already back into their regular clothes and there were no outward signs that they'd ever been pregnant. My acupuncturist announced that at eight weeks post-partum she weighed less than she did before she got pregnant.

Yes, my friends, it's an unfair world.

So with the New Year looming ahead I have decided one thing: On January 1st I will not put on any maternity clothes. Yes, at nearly nine weeks post-partum I am still wearing my maternity jeans and many of my maternity shirts. My breastfeeding ta-tas are huge and most of my regular shirts are obscenely tight against my chest, not to mention the fact that they point a huge arrow at my still lingering pregnancy pooch.

Two weeks ago I tried on my pre-pregnancy jeans. Or, rather, I attempted to try them on. Sure I could pull them up, but most of them would not be buttoned, and the two pair that did required great straining on my part and there's no way I could have sat down comfortably wearing them.

I do take occasional walks with Eli, but I am nowhere near ready to start up my (very sporadic) jogging regimen. I need to build stamina and endurance with longer walks before I'm up for that kind of activity. And I couldn't muster a stomach crunch before this whole ordeal, so the thought of doing one now… Yet, how else will I get rid of all this extra baggage in the front?

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10/25/10 - A brief update: All-in-all, I did eventually lose all but eight pounds of my pregnancy weight, most of it coming off without much effort … until I had about fifteen pounds to go. Then it started to take some serious work.

And now, pregnant again. I'm much more mindful of what I’m eating this time around and am trying not to fall into the "I'm pregnant, I can eat anything I want," trap. For most of the day I am doing very, very well. This does not mean, however, that I have not fallen back into the "I have to eat ice-cream nearly every night because it's awesome" routine. Thankfully I am gaining weight at a slower pace, so far. Seventeen weeks in and I've gained twelve pounds (Oh, plus the eight I never lost. Shit.).

I have also been in maternity clothes for nearly two months already. At first I felt devastated, but I got over it quickly. Comfort should not be underestimated, ever. Welcome back, stretchy-waist pants.

The Hesitant Exit Strategy

Well, here we are nine months later. Clearly, updating this blog on a regular basis has not been my forte. The sad part is that I've written entries in the interim and they are sitting on my computer. That is to come, readers.

Before getting to the past and sharing the struggles and triumphs leading up until this moment, how about a current update?

I am pleased to report that Eli is now eleven months old, and yes, I am still breastfeeding. I have begun to supplement as my milk supply has taken a serious dive in the last two months … this may have something to do with the fact that I am pregnant with our second child(!!!). Yes, there will not be much of a break for me or my boobies before diving into this process all over again.

The amazing thing is that if you only read the first entry I've written, and know nothing else of the time between, you might assume that I still hate breastfeeding. And yes, did I ever have a love-hate relationship with it, for a very long time. There are still moments when I resent it, say, on a Saturday morning when my husband doesn't have to work and sleeps in, and I still schlep out of bed before seven to feed Eli. It's tough to never, ever sleep in on any given morning.

But, when I think about the fact that this part of our time together is coming to an end, and that soon Eli and I won't share this special bond, it makes me very emotional. Part of it is pregnancy hormones. One minute I am insanely happy and the next I could bawl. You know, it's like amped up PMS.

I also have an irrational fear that Eli simply won't need me once I am not his "food source." Of course, he's been eating solids and is transitioning away from nearly all of his jarred baby food now. I am not his main food source, nor have I been for some time. Still, if I'm not supplying any of his food, there is a part of me that feels like anyone could care for him and he wouldn't know the difference. Again, irrational. I know this.

What I'm realizing is this: I didn't think it would be so difficult and emotional to stop breastfeeding. I figured I'd be ticking the days off the calendar by now, waiting for my little man to hit that one-year mark so I could begin real cow's milk and slowly finish weaning him. That's still the plan, though things have been accelerated by my lack of supply and his occasional lack of interest in breastfeeding.

In theory this all sounds simple enough, but like so many other aspects of mothering it is more complicated than it appears. And everything, for me at least, also involves so many different and often conflicting emotions. Eleven months ago, when I was struggling, crying, frustrated, on the brink of giving up, it never occurred to me that one day I may not want to stop breastfeeding.

Now, here we are. I realize I could continue breastfeeding beyond the first year. And were I not pregnant, I may have traveled down that road (though I also never want to breastfeed simply because I am having a hard time letting go, either). As it stands, I would like a break between children, a time to "rest" my body before the demands of breastfeeding begin again. I would like to sleep in on a Saturday morning, perhaps just once, before baby #2 makes his or her appearance. This used to make me feel selfish (another, all-to-frequent emotion that bubbles up), but then I remind myself for the thousandth time that once in awhile I need to take care of myself before taking care of everyone else.

Of course, this is easier said than done.