One of the things no one tells you before you get pregnant is that baby weight is pretty much impossible to lose. Unlike other weight, which sheds itself nicely with a healthy diet and some exercise, baby weight seems to stick around like a drunk party guest who can't take a hint. No one told me this before I got pregnant, and if they had, I might have lobbied my husband a little more forcefully to adopt. When I brought up to my mother how much trouble I was having losing the last of the baby weight she just sort of laughed and said, "Yeah. It doesn't come off."
About a year before TTC (that's "trying to conceive" for those not up on their acronyms) the husband and I made a pact to get fit together. Our primary goal was to ditch our bad habits and get healthy, and our secondary goal was to lose weight. I also had a third goal, which was to be in the best physical shape I could be in before TTC so I would have a healthy pregnancy.
Though at the time it felt like torture, the fact is that in less than five months Husband lost 35 pounds and I lost 20. We no longer spent half our grocery bill on wine that got consumed at a rate of a bottle a night. We both exercised regularly, every morning. We ate healthy dinners and packed sensible snacks for work/law school. I spent most of 2007 feeling pretty spectacular about myself. For the first time in my life I had a flat stomach, triceps that didn't wiggle when I waved, and thighs that didn't rub together when I wore skirts or dresses. I was already over 30 years old but fit into the same size jeans I wore as a teenager. I bought a closet full of cute, tiny, tight clothes that showed off my Pilates-toned, whole-grain-consuming bod.
Then I got pregnant.
I started off with the best of intentions. I bought prenatal yoga DVDs. I drank orange juice and skim milk all the time. The husband and I took long walks in the evenings. I felt ready to have a happy, healthy pregnancy and give my baby the best start to life that I could. This was my way of showing my baby that I already loved him, oh so much.
Then the morning sickness rolled in. At first it was kind of cute, like I'd randomly get nauseous during the day, so I'd eat half a granola bar or something and it would go away.
But it got progressively worse. One weekend it got so bad that I lost 3 pounds over 5 days. I called my doctor to ask if this was normal, and she prescribed me some Zofran, a powerful anti-nausea medication that's commonly given to chemo patients. She also told me to eat whatever I could, no matter what. Just eat and try to keep it down.
So I did.
I continued to eat this way for my entire pregnancy. Cheered on by an office full of dieting young women who were only too happy to encourage me to eat whatever I wanted because I "could," I did just that. For nine months. Since the Princeling was born in October he had several dozen bags' worth of candy corn piped to him while I was pregnant, as well as countless meatball subs, Doritos, donuts, French fries, chocolate chip pancakes, Slurpees, and so much Nutella that I half expected him to be born coated in it. ("Mrs. Lopez, we're now going to deliver the placenta. Here it-wait, is that Nutella?") The result of all of this was that instead of gaining the adorably normal 25-35 pounds most pregnant women get, I gained 52.
High on pregnancy hormones, I expected that by the time I left the hospital with my pink, wriggly little Princeling in my arms that I'd be ready to pull on those size 6 jeans again. Oh, 2008 Meredith. How young and naïve you were.
The Princeling is now almost a year old and I not only still have my muffin top, but my hips, butt, and thighs have joined the party. Yesterday I went to Target to buy new jeans and caught a glimpse of my butt in the double-mirror. It stared accusingly back at me, saying, "Yeah, like it's my fault you ate that cupcake on Sunday. I'm just the victim here, lady." And then it doubled in size right there in the fitting room!
Meanwhile, I'm doing everything I can to get my flat belly back, but my body just isn't responding. I tried a low-carb diet for 7 weeks. Believe me, I proudly admit to being a carb addict, and 7 weeks of no mashed potatoes with dinner or mac and cheese for lunch was hard. But it didn't help me lose weight. I lost four pounds right away and then gained them all back. I tried the low-cal diet that worked in 2007. That isn't working, either.
I'm doing cardio and yoga and chasing around a hyperactive toddler whose driving purpose in life seems to be to climb up as high as he can onto things and then fall down backwards onto his head. I walk a ton. I've given up my nightly glass (or three) of wine, again. I've given up my nightly bowl of ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup, again. I even bought that issue of Children's Health magazine with Michelle Obama on the cover and the headline, "Get Your Pre-Baby Body Back!" If anyone on the planet can show me how, it's my girl Michelle. I don't even necessarily want to go back to my pre-baby weight - that's just a number on the scale - so much as get my flat stomach back and be able to wear a skirt or dress again without my thighs rubbing together.
Yet it's as if my body is seeking some kind of revenge on me for getting pregnant. "What the EFF was THAT??? What did you just make me do??? Screw that, I'm KEEPING all this extra fat in case you get the brilliant idea to make another person."
With the Holidays approaching, and all the yummy yummy foods that go along with them, I'm tempted to throw in the towel, call it a day, and make peace with my muffin top and ass the size of Mt. Everest. That's the feminist thing to do, right? So pass me another bag of candy corn and clear the sidewalks, 'cause my thunder thighs and I are on the loose!