Photo by Elizabeth Mason Legrand
I didn't think that it would bother me so much for my body to change after giving birth. Just a few short weeks postpartum people were commenting on how quickly I lost weight and how little I was. Even now you probably wouldn't look at me and think, "There's a girl who definitely just had a baby," or, "She could stand to lose a few pounds." I, however, am up-close and personal with my new body. I can see and feel my squishy, round tummy. I have experienced my now wider hips rejecting my pre-pregnancy pants.
I guess that being thin and having a flat stomach somehow became a part of my identity. That's not to say that I felt perfectly secure about being skinny. I knew that I would never have some of the--ahem--assets that other women had. I would never be a curvy girl. At times that bothered me. Though I felt I had those short comings, at least I knew I had the zero fat thing going for me. I can't say that anymore.
In the past I almost always reached for the smallest clothing size that a store carried--and sometimes even that was too small. Being a size four or six or small or medium rather than a one or two and extra small might sound like a dream to some women, but to me it feels foreign. Wearing my skin-tight pre-baby clothes and seeing a little pooch around my midsection, I hardly recognize myself. I honestly feel embarrassed.
I've basically had to buy a whole new wardrobe. I'm someone who loves clothes. I so enjoy creatively putting together outfits--coming up with new combinations of texture, color, and print. What used to be a glorious adventure has become a chore that I dread. Instead of delighting in the ensembles I crafted, I find myself scrounging for something that I can wear that I won't feel stupid in.
I'm trying to remind myself: my body is a tool, not a decoration. This body allows me to do extraordinary things. It has allowed me to kick soccer balls, run miles, win wrestling matches. My body has embraced the broken, walked alongside people, and brought meals and gifts to bless others. Most recently, my body did the incredible feat of bringing life into the world. Instead of being amazed and praising my body, I have chastised it. When I should have said, "Great job! You have created and sustained the most perfect little human," I have asked, "Why can't you look like you once did?"
Something in me, as a woman craves beauty. I desire to be lovely. I think that's okay. But who says that the new slightly chestier (thanks breastfeeding), wider hipped, squishy-tummied, still not very curvy, me can't be beautiful? Who decided that a round belly is lovely when a woman is going to give birth and hideous after she has already done so?
So, I will probably keep living in flowy shirts, and high-waisted bottoms that I feel flatter my dynamic figure. But, instead of hiding and shaming of my ever-changing body I want to celebrate it. I want to love and accept my imperfect self. I want to use my body to love and serve. Even if it means stretching it, wrinkling it, and wearing it out, ultimately I hope that my body will be used as a tool to bring more of heaven to earth. I think that, is pretty beautiful.
