Size Six

I fit into my old size six pants.

Okay, so “fitting” is a stretch. However, I can stuff my multi-layered ass into the pants and zip them up without splitting any seams or breaking any buttons. 

Okay, so I only tried one particular pair of size sixes.

And I didn’t dare bend or sit.

There was muffin top involved.

BUT.

I got them on, goddammit. And that counts for something.

I think I’m about seven pounds away from comfortably fitting into some of my old pants, and realistically I’m 12 pounds away from being in the neighborhood of my pre-pregnancy weight.

I really don’t try hard enough, though. I do work out four to five days a week. I even started doing a pseudo-jog thing while pushing the girls in a totally non-jogging stroller.

(You must understand that I am not a runner. I am not athletic. I don’t “do” exercise in the way that some people “do” exercise. But I do it because I have to and ultimately my ass heart thanks me for it.)

But I don’t consistently watch what I eat. I have ice cream every single night in serving sizes that defy any caloric quantification, which I stuff into a tiny ramekin because it makes me believe that I’m eating less than I actually am. I eat bacon, mayonnaise and cheese, but insist on buying 1% milk and pouring it over mulch-in-a-bowl cereal for breakfast. As I type this, I have splatters of oil all over my shirt from tonight’s dinner — something called “chicken-fried chicken,” which I prepared with homemade buttermilk ranch dressing. 

And served it over organic spring salad greens.

I used to eat like shit. But I’d only eat, like, four bites of shit. I just can’t do that anymore, not now that I’m trying to, you know, nourish two babies and all.

Sigh.

As I run errands at Burlington and Kohl’s and Target, I’ve started eyeballing bathing suits too. Not bikinis, mind you, because although my stomach is less scary than I thought it would look, it’s still not ready for its beach debut. No, this year will be the Year of the Tankini. And boy, those things are uuugggglyyyyy. The patterns are horrifying. And breast support? Nada! My boobs look like lactating pancakes underneath swaths of Lycra-psychedelic-grandma prints. Since I’ve never had boobs before in my life, I’m not sure if this is normal.

(Here’s a visual for you: Hold up a flip-flop to your breast area. That’s what my boobs will look like after I stop breast feeding.)

Anyhow, what I’m finding interesting about this whole post-partum body experience (which is not unlike an out-of-body experience) is that, while I have every right to be — nay, I should be self-conscious about what has happened to my body, I just kind of don’t. I have brazenly stripped off my shirt and pumped or breastfed in front of friends and family, knowing full well that they see my bizarre-o stomach shape and stretch marks, but I just haven’t cared enough to be modest. It’s almost as though I defy anyone to say shit to me because if I can carry 13 pounds of people in my uterus, I pretty much have the right to throttle anyone who dares say anything about my body.