The other day, I read an article over at Mommyish by Carinn Jade entitled “I Lost By Baby Weight In Three Weeks But I’m Still Not Comfortable In My Post-Baby Body.” By the time I finished the last paragraph, I felt like I could have written that article myself.  Not that I lost any baby weight from any of the girls in the three weeks, but I could strongly relate to the author’s feeling that her outward appearance was not in sync with her inner self.  I started commenting at the end of the article, but it turned into something more.

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When I first saw this quote, I thought, “EXACTLY!” Ugh! I was so disrespectful to my pre-baby body. I have been disrespectful to it for a long time. I went to an all girls high school, where unbeknownst to probably everyone, I never felt like I fit in. Of a class of 66, I was one of three Black girls. Being Black made me stand apart from the other 63 classmates who weren’t.  Being a fair-skinned separated me even further from the two other girls of my race.  Let me explain: I doubt the other two girls had to defend their paternity to our history teacher during Black History month.   My teacher declared that  my father had to be white because:

1. He has green eyes.
2. She saw him.  –> her actual quote, “He must be white! I’ve seen him!”

Oh, okay.  Thanks that dollop of mortification on top of my precarious confidence.

High school is hard enough with fluctuating hormones and constantly trying to find your place in the ebb and flow of the social hierarchy.  Back then, I felt very obvious.  That made me  continuously see ways in which I was lacking.  I wasn’t the crush of the right boy. I didn’t have the right  hair. I didn’t wear the right size; whatever it was, it was bigger (in my eyes) than everyone else.  Everything just wasn’t right.  When it came to sports, activities and school-work, I threw myself into it. That was something I knew and I could do.  Self-confidence about being a teenage girl was elusive.  I was grasping for something that I thought could be conferred on my by someone else.

When I thumb through my yearbooks, I look at myself and think about the time I wasted.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed high school.  There were dances, proms, holiday brunches, sleep-overs and the like.  There were plenty of distractions to pull my attention from cataloging my perceived deficits. Besides, the list was private; I’m sure if any of my classmates were reading this now, they’d be surprised.  I realize now, how much more fun I could have had instead of wasting time thinking about how to be cuter or prettier or (and I’ll admit it) skinnier. I should have been nicer to myself, but since I can’t change that, I can change how nice I am to who I am now.

I worked hard to get to a place where I was comfortable enough to not have my body be my own for nine months.  I worked hard to get back to that place after each of the girls were born.  With every subsequent pregnancy, there was almost an implicit challenge among other pregnant women and moms about how quickly one could shed the baby weight.  We were all (and continue) to compete against one another for a prize that doesn’t exist.

Think about all the scrutiny that surrounded Jessica Simpson and her never-ending gestation. When she did have her little girl, all eyes turned to the scale and the ticking clock perched above it.  The sooner a woman loses weight after giving birth, the bigger a hero she becomes.

When Beyonce popped out Blue Ivy (if you didn’t believe the pillow conspiracies) and popped up on a date night a few weeks later looking better than she had before, you could hear the collective groan from the mommy-verse.  She set the bar way high for the rest of us, came the refrain.  But did she really? I don’t think she turned to Jay-Z and said, “You know what? I’mma make it rain on these broads. Ka-Pow!”  Don’t even get me started on the Victoria Secret Triumvirate that is Adriana Lima, Alessandra Ambrosio, and Miranda Kerr.  The bottom-line is it’s their job to look good.

My job? Keep the kids alive and if they become worldly, well-rounded, well-adjusted, contributing adults, consider that a bonus.

I kid, of course.  My job is more complicated than that.

My pre-baby weight is gone, but so is my pre-baby body.  There’s a difference between the two. I’m grieving the loss of the body way more than the weight.  It’s not a death sentence, though.  Sure, I’d prefer that some things be where they used to be (or at least a little bit higher) and that other things would be more firm, less poochy.  Things have settled differently; it happened after Mo, it happened after Co, it happened after Vivi.  

Hah! I’m not alone!  I could have kissed her after I read that! Who among us knows what we’re doing with absolute certainty? I don’t.  I’m doing the best I can with what I know how.  I’m relying on my own experience as a daughter, folding in tidbits that I glean from parenting books and magazines and conversations with others.  Do I get it right all the time? Nope.  Do I get it right some of the time? I certainly try.

When I was trying to get back into shape after Vivi, Mo saw my Weight Watchers foodstuffs in the pantry and the fridge. She asked me why she couldn’t eat it, why was it only for me.  Hello, teachable moment.  So I told her how my body grew to make room for Vivi, to ensure Vivi would be healthy and strong.  I told her that now that Vivi was out and about, I didn’t need to carry this extra weight around any more. She seemed satisfied with that answer, but also told me that I needed to share the snacks.

When I was pregnant with each of the girls, every night I would pray that they would have all of my strengths and none of my weaknesses.  As I would roll those words around my mind, I could readily call up weaknesses I wanted them to avoid.  Over time, I decided I needed to call up the strengths instead.  I have to inoculate my girls against low self-esteem.  I have to boost their self-worth, remind them that it’s not tied to a number on a scale, a number in their jeans, the length of their hair, the color of their eyes or the color of their skin.  They will learn to take a compliment, not explain it away.  I can’t guarantee that these things will happen, but I can pray that they will.  Often times one wry word from an outsider can tear down these ministrations, but I will build them back up. And when they see me do that for them, they will learn to do it for themselves and each other.

That’s my job, and it begins with me.