I Want My Body Back  

Ribs.

I have them now, just in case you didn't know.

You see, there was a whole... well, I'll give myself the benefit of the doubt... decade during which the presence of my ribs was more urban legend than reality. I'd had them at one point-- at one point, I'd been an All-American high school swimmer, a lean, muscular frame with shoulders nearly the width of an NFL linebacker. And although you'd never describe me as thin, back then, you definitely would have called me an athletic build. But college... then grad school... then marriage... put the presence of those precious bones in the realm of fantasy.

And then I got pregnant.

By 20 weeks, I had gained 25 pounds. I'd gained so much, so fast, that two of my favorite coworkers began a very open pool regarding my pregnancy. No, not when I'd give birth, but how much I'd weigh at 40 weeks. One guessed 50 pounds. Another guessed 60. I took the under at 40 pounds. My doctors never seemed concerned about my weight gain, but I definitely was. I stopped drinking anything but water after one OB told me juice and lemonade were just empty calories. I started limiting my portion size. I even lugged my massive frame to the gym 2-3 times a week for a 30-minute sweat-fest on the elliptical trainer until I was two days away from my due date. I turned what I'd always believed would be the only true "diet & exercise-free" period of my life into a highly regimented health plan.

It's immaterial exactly how much I gained during those 40 weeks. Suffice it to say, it was enough. And when G was born last September, I was just as ready to meet her as I was to lose the weight. And lose it I did.

By the time I left the hospital, I had lost exactly half the baby week. By G's two-week appointment, I had just 15 pounds to go. By the time I was six-weeks post-partum (and allowed to exercise), just eight pounds of baby weight remained. In fact, when I went to my brother-in-law's wedding seven weeks after giving birth, I bought a brand new dress-- a size 8-- and it was a little big on me. When I went back to work at 16 weeks post-partum, I was officially back to my pre-preggo weight. After another two months, I was a full 15 pounds under the weight I'd been for the majority of my adult life. In fact, I was at a weight I hadn't seen since my high school swimming days.

Remember those same coworkers who used to bet on my weight gain? Soon, they were pulling me aside and asking pointed questions regarding my health habits. Was I eating enough? Was the stress getting to me? Did I need to talk someone? One even slapped me on the back in approval when I grabbed a second bagel during a morning meeting, and frowned when I talked about fitting into a pair of size 4 jeans.

Now don't hate me. Pleeeeeease don't hate me. Just because the number on the scale was low did not mean I looked good.

First of all, I've been nursing G for the past 10+ months. That alone should explain the state of my chest. 'Nuf said. I still have that "baby mush" around my belly. Before I got pregnant, I may have been a bit heavier, but at least my abs were in shape. Not anymore. Nine months of baby-making have reeked havoc on my mid-section. Then there are the stretch marks... well, everywhere. I've given up hope that those things will ever go away. Now, they are simply my battle scars, a living memory of a job well done.

Yet, despite these dramatic changes to my body-- some good, some not-so-good-- I love it more than ever. This is the body that nurtured my baby girl as she grew inside me. It's the body that could feel her first movements, long before anyone on the outside could see my belly moving. My body has helped me nourish G with enough breast milk for a full year, maybe more. My body is strong, it is powerful, it is my greatest tool.

Sure, when I was in high school, this body might have propelled me to school records and district championships. But I've never been more proud of its accomplishments than I am now.