If you need motivation to lose lingering baby weight, I suggest opening an email announcing your 20th high school class reunion this summer. At least, this is what caused me to grab my tennis shoes and head out for a three mile walk up, down and around Fort Hill.
I’ve been ignoring this issue for a while now, as proven by a recent conversation in my OB/GYN’s office. As if the visit alone weren’t uncomfortable enough, waiting room chit-chat caused the ol’ blood pressure to spike just before my name was called. The woman seated next to me shifted anxiously in her chair as she tugged at her “jeggins” to give herself more breathing room.
“My doctor’s going to get on me for holding onto all this baby weight,” she said nervously.
“Oh, it takes some time – I know. How old is your baby?” I asked.
“Six months. How old is yours?” she countered.
Yes. My “baby” is five years old and enrolling in kindergarten on April 4th, yet I’m still carrying her around…on both hips. And thighs. And upper arms.
One of my girlfriends heard me complaining about being 25 pounds heavier than I used to be, and she invited me to start jogging with her in the evenings. “I can’t start running until I can fit into my exercise clothes!” I huffed.
During my first pregnancy, I gained 53 pounds and shed 55 in three months. My daughter was born in June, and I had to return to the law firm in August, so a driving force in eating eggs for breakfast, chicken for lunch and steak for dinner was to get back into the size six uniform. While I thought I was going to sacrifice a pair of kidneys in the process, I did lose the weight and I did gain confidence. The second baby, however, didn’t produce the same determined energy. Warned that second pregnancies make weight loss more challenging, I seemed to rest on that notion (and on the couch). Now working from home full-time, I didn’t have to wear a suit every day of the week – unless it was made of cotton spandex.
Five years later, I’ve grown into my larger skin with a type of lazy acceptance that ‘this is what happens’ when you have two babies inside of three years. My husband, who carefully and strategically tells me that I look “fine” (when prodded), honestly doesn’t care that I’ve ‘let myself go’ (as my 1930s-era mother would have called it). I’ve let myself go in the direction of being more accepting, less competitive and strangely happier. While I’m not unhealthy, I am indeed bigger.
So, this summer, when I walk into a crowded room of parents who used to be teenagers, I’m not going to worry about the baby weight that may or may not come off in time. I hope this is the result of being all grown up.