Fear of Scales Aside...

Every once in a while, it hits me - throws me for a loop - catchs me off guard (and any other cliche to suggest being "caught by surprise" that you can think of) - that I've had children. That I'm someone's mother. I'll be unloading the dishwasher while my son buzzes around in his bedroom (during what's supposed to be naptime) and I imagine that any moment he'll scream and I'll be left to deal with the disaster - that I'm the adult in the situation. It terrifies me.

My mother is a nurse, clearly suited for the job of raising children. Clearly able to dab wounds with hydrogen peroxide and bandage up cuts and determine how deep is deep enough to consider a trip to the ER for a stitch or two. But me? I'm lucky I survive the poop-incidents as well as I do. Heaven help me when my child is finally struck down by a stomach bug and I need to be the basin bringer, the vomit scrubber.

And so I load up the dishwasher and wonder what I've gotten myself into, just as a thud and cry comes from my son's bedroom.

Other times, things occur to me while laying on the couch, looking over at my husband. A wave of realization that we aren't who we once were anymore. That my body has been a vessel, twice. That it's not the same as the one that walked down the aisle to hold his hand. That it never will be, no matter how many hours I log on that treadmill, or however many crunches I squeeze or weights I lift - no matter how many pre-pregnancy outfits I can pull on and dance around triumphantly in - my body itself is fundamentally altered in a way that I can't change back, because it's not only a physical change - but a mental one. The way I see and feel about my body is fundamentally different than it was before I had children.

Before children, my body was bad. It was something to be beaten into submission and dragged to the gym. I was constantly worried about pinching (nonexistent) fat on my sides, and wondering if anyone else was noticing my thigh-spread when I sat on a couch. I ate like it wasn't a requirement for life, but a necessary evil, something to handle with great caution. (My husband might argue that this hasn't changed.)

But now, I stretch and walk and run, because it feels good. And I see my curves as good. Because they are. My hips have shifted, made way for birth. My chest is bigger, but not so large that it hurts my back or does anything worse than attract a few more stares at the gym - so what?

And yes, I still dread the scale like a child afraid to write his answers out on the blackboard at school. There's a fear of disapproval (which is an entire other blog post in and of itself) - but, I've realized over the past week that this new body is inherently good. That there's a softness to my stomach and chest that I actually like, it's perfect for small heads to cuddle on, and the once dreaded thigh-spread is now a warm lap for little bums to sit on and nuzzle nearer to me.

It makes me sad to think that the pre-baby me would've taken one look at this stomach and found a million places to pinch, to squeeze and loath and pout about in the mirror - without giving thought to what this softened body has done - who it has housed, nourished, grown.

Sometimes, I totally wish I could go back in time and smack her. And maybe I would, if she hadn't gone and gotten pregnant and stumbled upon the realization that her body isn't her enemy all by herself.