worth the weight.

The day Claire was born, I weighed 211 pounds. Let that sink in. Two hundred and eleven pounds. Because I arrived at the hospital mid-Everett, I missed out on a hospital weigh-in. My midwives, bless them, used a bathroom scale. After my girth got too girthy, and I couldn't see my feet anymore they didn't bother telling me my weight. The 'wives were picky about diet and I obeyed. Very little sugar. Lots of herbs. No coffee. Tons of kiefer and tons of fiber. The goal was to develop a modest sized baby, rather than the plus-sized models that I seemed to make. Who knows how huge Mr. Baby could have gotten if I hadn't stuck to their strict no-sugar plan? Almost 3 months later, I am still carrying around about 20 pounds more than I'd like. It could be worse, but I would like very much to fit into my skinny jeans. And my tummy, poor dear, is struggling to maintain its dignity after being stretched around almost 10 pounds of baby. I don't remember it looking quite this sad after I had Claire.

I'm going to avoid saying mean things about my body, because there is a little girl who lives in my house and she is listening. I want her to know that this is a body that grew two babies. A body learned to care for her while recovering from major surgery. A body that pushed out her brother without drugs. This body is perfect for singing songs and rocking babies and dance parties. I might never get back into my skinny jeans. I'll give it a try, but I'm not sitting out any dance parties over 20 little pounds.
My boy, who smiles like a Buick every time I walk into the room, thinks I'm pretty. And that makes it worth it.