I recently jumped on the scale, for the first time in months.
Before my children, I was always trim, athletic, thin. Oh, and eating disordered. Pregnancy was a total mind fuck for a recovered/ing 'eating disorder not otherwise specified' woman. But after Isabella was born, the 32 pounds I gained fell off in three short months. Three months later I had lost an additional 20 pounds or so. Extreme stress did that to me. I wore a zero. I stopped lactating. Not awesome.
With Bridger I gained the same 32 pounds. But three months after giving birth to a nearly 10 pound baby, plus a large placenta, I was just 10 pounds lighter than the morning my water broke. Two years later I was still 18 pounds heavier than when he was conceived. He is still as of this post breastfeeding. It did not melt off the pounds the second time around. I feel cheated.
So imagine my surprise when I discovered I am now within five pounds of my pre-Bridger weight. 12 pounds of my pre-Isabella weight. And how? Living. Loving. Eating real food. Baking from scratch. Following, more or less, Michael Pollan's advice: Eat Food. Mainly Plants. In Moderate Amounts. Having a celebratory relationship to my fuel. Daily yoga. Mindfulness.
But the truth is, my navel is a different shape. My breasts no longer stand at attention. My hips have spread. Two people grew within the confines of my abdomen. No number can change that fact. And finally, finally, I have surrendered my need for control enough for that to be ok. I am two children away from my pre-pregnancy body. And that is beautiful.
