By the time I reached my early thirties, I had managed to achieve one thing at least – I was at peace with and in my body, with all its excess bits and imperfections. I was never going to have a flat belly, I was always going to have love handles and possibly cellulitis on my bum, but it did not matter - Breadcrumb's dad loved me just the way I was and, more importantly, God loved me just the way I was (also, I had seriously shapely ankles). I was eating right, cycling to work, I was healthy and in good shape. All things considered, excessive attention to my body was only going to distract me from giving proper time and space to more important things in my life.
Then I got pregnant and things got better – I was growing a tiny human inside me, my body was a cocoon, it made it so much more special! But then I became heavy, my boobs stopped being my boobs, and my ankles were not so seriously shapely anymore, particularly not in the evening. Never mind, I told myself, I'm getting my body back soon.
Right.
Almost six months post partum, and I still have 7kg of baby weight to shed, my boobs are still feeding implements (which, actually, is their primary purpose – a thing all those who frown upon breastfeeding in public while happily oogling page 3 girls* seem to forget), I eat whatever and whenever I can and exercising consists mostly in heaving an increasingly heavy baby around the house and out. I have arms like Schwarzenegger, but it doesn't help my abs much.
So much for my body being a temple**. More like a feeder combined with means of transportation.
And so much for eating and drinking drink to the glory of God***.
Needless to say, I don't feel very well in that body these days. I feel heavy and awkward, I look in the mirror and I don't recognise myself. That's not my belly. These are not my boobs (I actually went as far as calling them udders once). But the truth is that I'm mostly too in love (tired?) to really care. Besides, I've learnt that motherhood meant that me-time is reduced to Breadcrumb's power naps (if I'm lucky), so I need to prioritise. And I don't think a physical workout is more important than a spiritual one (if I thought so, this blog would most definitely not exist). And in the end, this is the body that bore Breadcrumb, the body that carried him for 9 months and made sure he had everything he needed. If not for anything else, I've got to love it for that!
There.
I started to write this in order to make peace with my changed body (and give myself permission to have pancakes for breakfast). But writing made me want (yet again) to try to eat better and exercise more (maybe I could find space for a bike ride here and there? - ah yes, but that would require getting the bike out of the shed and into shape, urgh, too much effort?). No, really - ultimately, my body is a temple. And I do have duty of care here.
Which does not mean that when I'll feel exhausted and miserable again I won't seek solace in a cookie. Well, a couple of cookies. It's never going to be just one cookie. Let's face it. And you know what? That's ok – with a baby in the house, it's whatever keeps you going!
* In Britain, page 3 in many tabloid newspapers features a topless woman. Every day. It's an institution. So much so it has it's own Wikipedia entry.
** 1 Cor 3:16-17 and 6:19-20
***1 Cor 10:31
How to use a baby to work on your abs AKA Breadcrumb as Little Airplane. |