Conversations With Bod

I loved being pregnant. I loved it! I loved it so much that I think that the only reason I want more children is so that I can be pregnant again. In fact, if you know anyone who needs a surrogate, call me. Seriously.

There were plenty of things about my pregnancy that turn women off to the whole process forever. I was very sick during the first trimester, throwing up daily and often. My feet swelled up to the size of small cantaloupes, making wearing shoes impossible. My arms were constantly falling asleep, I gained weight EVERYWHERE, and I am still convinced that Jack had a twin sister that was growing in my newly developed double chin.

But, glory of all glories, I didn't have to suck in my belly anymore. Sweet God and Oprah. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Peter, Paul and Mary. Ashley and Mary Kate, I didn't have to suck in my damn belly anymore. I have been sucking it in for as long as I can remember. Do you understand how wonderful this is, people? Do you really comprehend the marvelousness of no longer sucking it in? Can you grasp the splendor? If so, you are probably like me and have been wearing tight, binding undergarments designed to smooth out the bumpy, lumpiness that has accumulated at your midsection. I, for one, have had a hate-hate relationship with my tummy my entire life. There has been no love present between us ever. In fact, I had come to believe that all of the bad things in my life were, in fact, caused by it. "Because of you," I would say to my tummy, "I am unloveable." I am less than. I am an untouchable. My life just made more sense as a pregnant woman. The amount of food I consume normally is justifiable when I am pregnant. People would watch me reach for a second helping of ice cream, would nod in approval and exclaim, "You're eating for two now, so go for it!," And speaking of food, cravings are totally cool, too. It's perfectly acceptable to drive to Taco Bell at 2:00am when you're pregnant. Not so much when you're not. And you know what else is fabulous about being pregnant? Maternity clothes! Oh, God, maternity clothes. How I love maternity clothes. My body just fits in maternity clothes, and I mean my non-pregnant body. So, as soon as I found out I was pregnant I had made my way into Pea in the Pod and Motherhood as if I were traveling to Mecca, my shopping utopia. I look good in maternity clothes. They are designed to show off a swelling belly and I was happy to oblige them. I put on the paneled pants (Oh, God, to wear paneled pants again...) and the blousy, empire-wasted shirt and suddenly I was transformed from an overweight, apple shaped woman trying to stuff herself into her clothes to a glowing, radiant mother-to-be. The transformation was instant. I was now allowed to have a belly. Oh, man, how I embraced this. I would sit with my hands crossed over my round stomach, as pregnant women do, and feel the freedom of being able to draw attention to this part of my body that I have loathed and hidden and hated for so long. I would rub the surface of it, feel such tenderness for it, for what it held inside. And while so many expectant women hate it when people reach out and touch their belly, I found this to be, by far, the best part about being pregnant. I absolutely loved it. Or maybe I should say my tummy loved it, for it was the first time in her life that she ever experienced such gentle, loving touch. She was the center of attention, in a good way for once. People were drawn to her, longed to be close to her, to touch her and draw from her the goodness that she held within her. Bright, happy faces would surround her and tell her that she was beautiful, that she was loved, that she was a miracle. I know that I should be able to tell her- or myself- all of this when I am not pregnant, but I just don't buy it. I don't believe it. Instead, I tell her- my tummy- that she is disgusting and horrible and the reason for all of my pain. I tell her that I wish she didn't exist, that I would like to have her removed from my life, and that without her I would be happy. Who wants to hear that? I have heard it, from past lovers and brothers and strangers, even. And it sucks to hear it. It's actually quite devastating. And yet, I say it to myself every day, over and over and over again. So I've decided to take my tummy and me to therapy, as if we were some old, married couple who have lived a lifetime together in misery, to see if we can learn how to love one another again. I plan to write about it here, but it scares me to do so, as if I am forcing myself to get undressed in front of the classroom. But I feel compelled to share my journey, my conversation with my body, no matter how ugly and lumpy and awkward it may be. And maybe as I do so I will look around and find bright, happy faces telling me that I am a miracle.