The Esteem of Motherhood

  Have you heard of Mom Bods? The internet has pictorial lists celebrating the feat of motherhood-- showing non-airbrushed women flaunting their stretch marks, engorged breasts, newfound roundness, and shifted body parts. I love these lists; I love these women and think they're beautiful and confident and have done something great with their bodies--creating a new life. But I don't feel the same about my own reflection. The scale tells me I'm the heaviest I've ever been, even larger than my awkward high school self. I despise the way I gorge from my clothing--with pudgy skin or giant pieces of bra fabric. My hair hasn't been dyed since finding out I was pregnant and I know I don't care for a natural look. Beneath my eyes are permanent indents, scars of sleepless nights. I find myself sifting through old photos, remembering when my hair was bright and fun and I was taking up less physical space. It's a guilty, covert act. Having a baby is a beautiful, endearing experience that I never regret--but why did motherhood have to make me so fat and frumpy?

Before: When priorities were skewed, but I looked cool.

  Motherhood begets inertia. Some days you are too exhausted to think or move. Nursing is a sedentary task. There's many hours of sitting in a chair while baby eats at their own pace,  usually in slow motion. You sit there for forty-five minutes while they slow-suckle their snack, and then they're hungry thirty minutes later. Like I said, it's sedentary. Add to the mix that Tallulah was born right before cold weather swarmed in, and you don't have much exercise in your regimen. Still, I tried. I took a baby wearing barre class. Once the weather warmed up I took advantage of early wakeup times and walked for an hour. I always take the stairs. I eat a lot of vegetables (although, as all nursing mothers will tell you, your serving sizes increase. Lactation stretches your appetite to a level you never knew existed). I drink my weight in water. My scale doesn't budge. That repulsive number stays the same, in the same glaring, red, digital font. Some mothers credit nursing to helping them melt into their former self. I'm not one of those mothers.

Before (again): With my brother, after my ten year journey to my BA was over. And I thought i was fat then. 

  Unwanted Weight makes your clothing look bad (so does nursing, really. Everything is based on how quick you can access your boobs to feed your baby). It doesn't help the under eye circles or mom-hair either. But it isn't all Unwanted Weight's fault.

 Time is no longer yours.

 That makes for speedy showers and mornings of baby wearing while you try to drag the mascara wand above your eyes. Putting on decent makeup means taking advantage of a baby nap, which may or may not happen. It also means that may be all you get to do--and I like using baby naps to write, and sometimes have to use them to clean. My appearance suffers. This same factor affects my hair. I stopped dyeing my hair during pregnancy to avoid chemicals. I still don't want the chemical aroma floating around the house, but there are other reasons I don't start painting my boring brown color with something vibrant and true to myself. Again, time is no longer yours. Nor is it certain. I could coat my hair in dye and be rushed to a baby who woke up early from her nap. When would I rinse it out? I don't like this natural look, but I'm not ready for bald either. I peruse pinterest for hairspiration, knowing that I would need to go to a salon to get these looks. That could mean extra babysitting, or several hours away when I need to pump or nurse, or an amount that is hard to pay when you were used to playing beauty parlor in your own bathroom.

  I opted for eyelash extensions instead.

  I've had them for a week and am already feeling the pangs of them not being long for my world. To keep them at their best, you have to make frequent trips to the salon. The trips aren't super long, but they still mean finding someone to watch the baby and a piece of your own time is now delegated to another chair. There's stories to write and litterboxes to change and breathing to be had. I'll enjoy them while they last.

Now: Tired and makeup-less and feeling out of place in my skin. But, SO in love with this little baby. I'd rather be a gargoyle than without her. 

  Have I reached a solution to this self mom-bod shaming? No, not exactly. I can tell myself that it isn't permanent and that it's more important to enjoy time with my daughter (DUH). It doesn't mean that I won't cringe at my reflection or see an old photo and say, "Man, I looked so much better before." It doesn't mean life was better. Not at all. It's way better now. I just need to avoid mirrors and cameras. Well, unless I'm holding the cutest-baby-ever in my arms. Then we're all about mirrors and cameras.