Expectations

My body image issues seem to be subsiding. Now that I am growing more and even strangers are able to tell that I am pregnant, I am more able to accept my changing body--at least visually. Instead of wondering if people think I've been making too many stops at the donut shop, they know that I'm pregnant, and that's a wonderful thing. (It also helps that my colleagues come by my office to ask how I'm feeling and tell me how fantastic my hair and skin are looking.)

But still I am struggling to accept the physical limitations that pregnancy is putting on me: I keep finding myself frustrated with things I think I ought to be able to do. Things I used to be able to do. A hike a few weeks back, on a trail that I found somewhat challenging (mostly because of my fear of falling) in April, left me limping with pain in my lower back for two days. In a recent yoga class, I discovered that plank pose, which has always given me a good arm workout, actually requires a fair amount of core strength--which isn't something I seem to have a lot of these days, not with an aching back and abs that are moving out of the way to make room for the baby. Speaking of abs, I used to be able to do 500 crunches. Now? Yeah, not so much.

"You just need to adjust your expectations," Brian keeps telling me. "Let go of your expectations," my yoga teacher says. "Practice non-attachment." Easier said that done, but I am slowly but surely taking their advice. While the rest of the yoga class does six sun salutations, I do four, moving at my own pace, putting up-dog in place of plank and cobra, rising carefully from my forward bend to avoid dizziness. I am cautious around the house, requesting that Brian carry laundry up and down the stairs for me, so that I don't do in my back again. I once walked a marathon, averaging a pace of 16 minutes a mile; now I walk a flat course on a treadmill, barely making it two miles in 40 minutes, so that I can keep my heartrate under control.

I figure this is good practice. All this letting go of expectations must be a rehearsal for motherhood.

Ship-shape

I didn't think I'd have to confront body image issues while I was pregnant. Certainly I expected to be concerned about getting my normal shape back after Sticky is born, but worry about it now? When I'm barely showing? That's a bit of a surprise. Maybe that was naive of me.

Over the past couple of years as more of my friends have begun to have children, I’ve heard some of them complain about the weight they’ve gained, worrying that they’re getting fat. “You’re not fat,” I tell them. “You’re growing a baby. You look fantastic.” I didn’t understand how they could worry about their weight while they were pregnant. Then, back in June, I put on my favorite jeans and couldn’t get them to button. I knew I was pregnant and that I was supposed to be gaining weight. And in some ways I was pleased to know that something was really happening. But when I looked in the mirror I didn't really look any different, so I just felt fat.

I’ve never been obsessive about my weight. If I realize that I’ve been overindulging and that my clothes are feeling a little snug, I stop eating ice cream and start going to the gym a couple of times a week. I’m never what you’d call skinny, but I’ve found a size that I’m comfortable with and that I can maintain while still satisfying my love of all things sweet.

But I guess I'm a little more weight-conscious than I thought. Whenever I read in my pregnancy book about what I ought to be weighing at a certain point and realize that not only have I stayed within that range, I’m at the low end of the range, I breathe a sigh of relief. I carefully study photographs of myself and this new body to see if the weight's all in my middle or if I'm gaining all over. Floating around in the pool provides temporary relief from the heat and my sciatica, but I have been reluctant to go because it means going out in public in a swimsuit.

It is getting a little bit easier to accept the weight gain and changing shape now that I am feeling (and looking) a little more pregnant (although not enough that anyone's offering me a seat on the bus), rather than just tubby in the middle. Walking by a shop window last week, Brian pointed out a dress he thought I would like, but added, "I guess that probably wouldn't really work for you now, would it?"

"Nope. The waist is...well, it has a waist. And my waist is sort of...missing right now." And I could laugh about it.