It was a simple question, and kindly asked: "Why don't you show us a pic of your growing belly?" Funny how a simple question can induce such panic. I don't have a problem with sharing a "belly" photo per se, though it seems I'm still the only one who can tell a difference there yet. But, if you see my belly, you'll see my arms, and my hair, and my thighs. Ech...
Plus, I hate comparing. The day that I think I finally look obvious, the "Amazing, I can't even tell!" comments begin. I talk to other moms just a week or two ahead of me, with their cute little bellies, and hear about their babies moving and the kicking, and I sigh. I am overweight, and just beginning to change my life. I have accepted that feeling baby's movement and looking pregnant will come a little later for me. I'm just grateful to be pregnant. It could have been so much worse, with the PCOS. So, I have accepted it. Mostly.
I recognize the possible impact of my negative body image, but it's a hard habit to overcome. I know that poor self-image and discomfort with bodily exposure can contribute to a traumatic birth experience. It's a whole lot happening in places that some like to pretend do not exist, particularly in a space as public as a hospital. You're not prepared for the sensations. You don't know how to handle them. Then, there's the dozen-th random cervical check when the doctor/nurse voices doubt on whether you're capable of getting your baby out. That has a tendency to leave some lasting feelings.
I'm not sure that many women realize how deep the habit of negative body image runs, mostly because we see it constantly throughout our lives. I was talking with a group of friends this past weekend about things our well-meaning mothers say to us. They mentioned the up-and-down scan with pursed lips. Or the barrage of questions about how that exercise class was going, or even how you will find a man, looking like that. I had to stop and think for a moment. My mother never said any of these things to me. So why do I struggle the same way? I believe it's because this is how she spoke to herself as I grew up, talking about the shame of having friends or spending time with women who were taller/thinner/better looking, the big push to lose X number of pounds before big trips and events, etc.
Growing up, I recognized on some level that this behavior wasn't the most healthy. So I decided at a young age to avoid the whole situation and ignore my physical fitness and appearance almost entirely. Needless to say, this didn't fix anything. I still adopted the shame and self-humiliation, while trying to forget half of myself. I spent the majority of my teenage years hiding out in zip-up hoodies, July and August included. I avoided photographs, swimming pools, and cute clothing stores in the mall. It was an awkward and sometimes hot experience.
There are a few other problems that were created by my choices. For one, I sometimes am no fun at all. I take few risks. I do little that might seem foolish or unflattering. And I constantly think or even speak of how others might consider what I'm doing.
Problem two is that I had no clue what to do when Prince Charming knocked on my door -- and the shoe fit. Since when do glass slippers come in a 9.5/10? He was funny and caring, and her understood everything I did. Not to mention, he was handsome. What's a poor, ordinary girl supposed to do with that? I didn't feel prepared to give love and let someone love me, particularly physically, when I had never loved myself.
Fortunately, I had already recognized my weakness, and had a lot of timely help. I had the sense to see that I had a very good man, and I married him even though I still wondered why he would want me. No one had ever been interested before. But I could be grown up about it. I had my heart to offer, along with loyalty and common goals for life and family. If he wanted it, he deserved the best I could give. Beyond that, if he chose to compliment some part of my body -- and goodness, he has a knack for picking the places I've hated most -- he was a saint for saying so, and I could take it with some gratitude and dignity. If he expressed love best with closeness and touch, I could accept and return it wholeheartedly, even if I was uncertain and unpracticed.
The timely help came in the form of a few glorious months I'd spent in California just before Preston and I started talking. I lived with a friend who radiated awesomeness, fun, and confidence. The people there were wonderful and real, and treated me as an equal. Perhaps I wasn't unlikable after all. Then, after the wedding, there was the doula training that I mentioned in my last post. I learned how much we needed to trust our bodies, listen to them, love and comfort them, and treat them well if we wanted to be happy, healthy, and helpful. I've been trying, I really have. It was a rough road leading to my PCOS diagnosis, but I gained some harmony along the way.
Problem three, I am determined, will not get the best of me. I will do my squats and yoga today, I will find myself a bright and beautiful birth gown, I will not look to see who's there when I do skin-to-skin, and I will not try to imagine my exposed self through other people's eyes. I can set some boundaries, too. I will wear my own clothes to labor and birth. I will walk and move and even get down on the floor if I want. And I refuse to lie on my back like a helpless bug with my legs in the air while holding my breath.
In token of my determination, I am offering a rare glimpse -- the requested photo, home quality, bare face, big arms, awkward pose and all. I'm even wearing my comfiest (i.e. baggiest) red salwar for full effect. And I'm doing my best to smile and be proud, just like all the women with the cute, round bellies. We've come a long way, my body and I, and we're going to make it so much farther, together.
Published: April 25, 2013
Tags
PregnancyGreat Expectations