“What a cruel scheme to keep a woman from knowing her power. To put the focus on what pregnancy did to her body rather than focus on what her body just did. Here we sit, creating and nourishing the future, and we are diminished to ‘baby weight.’ I will not succumb to your demeaning ideals.”
~ Amethyst Joy
Back in March, eight months after the birth of my third child, I had the opportunity to take part in a stunning photo series by the lovely and immensely talented, Mikaela Bodkin (now Vandenberk, but more widely known as Mikaela Shannon). My intention was to have this post written in time for Mother's Day, but, alas, that day has come and gone. Not only is it difficult to find the time to sit down and write, but to find just the right mood and inspiration to get the words flowing. Then comes the trouble of working up enough nerve to share such a vulnerable post.
The photo series, aptly named Love Your Postpartum, showcases the raw beauty of the female body and the various transformations that follow pregnancy and childbirth. In a matter of weeks after the project began, it had truly taken on a life of its own; being featured on the local news, catching the attention of numerous highly popular blogs here at home, as well as overseas, and even garnering interest from the CBS show, The Doctors. More recently, Mikaela has been published in Eltern, a German magazine intended for mothers and young families.
Mikaela’s purpose was simple, howbeit profound. She set out to empower mothers and encourage them to truly see and take pride in the strength and beauty of their postpartum figures. In a society that places such unrealistic expectations on women’s bodies, almost demanding mothers to “bounce back” to their pre-baby form, the miraculous feat that is pregnancy and childbirth seems to be replaced with an unrelenting pressure to erase all signs of what should only be regarded as a magnificent journey.
Had anyone asked me, following the birth of my first daughter, if I would ever consider having postpartum photos taken, let alone display them publicly for the world to see, I would have scoffed at the idea; yet, here I am, baring it all. Ladies and gents, I give you my body – a body that has grown, birthed, and nourished three babies in less than five years. My first two children are 16 months apart. To save you the math, that means I had merely 6 months of recovery before my body was thrown back into the wondrous task of pregnancy. My third child happened to be just over 10 pounds at birth. As I write this, 17 months postpartum following the birth of that 10 pounder, my abdominal wall is still separated (a little something known as diastasis recti) and it's questionable whether or not my internal organs have migrated back to their proper resting place. My once full & firm, cantaloupe-like breasts have been deflated into what can only be described as empty, wrinkled shopping bags. To be honest, I was recently lamenting to a friend that the skin of my boobs almost resembles a shriveled scrotum. Yes, you read that correctly, I just compared my breasts to a ball sack. Each tit must be manually loaded into its respective cup of my bra each morning, followed by several nipple adjustments to ensure that both girls are looking in the same direction should a swift, cool breeze come along to betray their location beneath my shirt. What seemingly accompanied my entrance into motherhood was a condition known as hypothyroidism, for which I will now be forever medicated. It may as well be called hypothermia, because I’m constantly freezing – except for those postpartum hot flashes… you know, those glimpses into the shit show of menopause that looms in the not-so-distant future. There is nothing like waking up so soaked in your own sweat that you’re convinced you’ve pissed yourself, and the cleavage between your ta-tas could be rightly named, “A River Runs Through It.” Speaking of pissing myself, I do that a lot. I piss when I sneeze. I piss when I laugh. I piss when I jump, run, cough, raise my voice above a whisper, or blink. Let’s not even get started on the state of my skin. I *might* have been lucky enough to experience the joyous glow of pregnancy for all of five seconds before acne and rosacea set in and lit my face up like a glaring red beacon in the midst of a thick fog. Hormones are a bitch. Despite all of it, I don't believe for one second that my children ruined me. I am changed, that is for certain, but the changes go so much deeper than the shape of my body or the surface of my skin.
Whether it was lying my head in her lap while she played with my hair, falling asleep on her chest and using her breasts as a pillow, or simply resting my head on her shoulder while we watched a movie together, no one else could cuddle like my mom. I remember melting into her and breathing in her warm, intoxicating scent that was uniquely hers. She had a softness that no one could replicate. My mother's embrace was, and still is, my safety and my comfort. Even now, in my thirties, wrapping my arms around her feels like home. I can remember taking showers with her as I began to transition from a bathing toddler to an independent young girl. I would watch as she picked out her clothes and got dressed, or stand in the bathroom doorway, intently gazing as her face became her canvas for the colours and powders contained within her makeup bag. I marveled at every small detail of her, wanting to emulate her every move. Not once can I recall looking at my mother's body with anything other than pure admiration. I idolized her. She was, and always will be, the most beautiful woman I've ever known. I only wish she could see herself the way I see her; the way I've always seen her. To this day, it breaks my heart to hear the way she speaks about herself; so focused on her perceived flaws, still putty within the venomous hands of the diet industry.
I, too, grew into that woman; the one whose only true enemy was the fat, ugly, horribly inferior girl the mirror. For more than a decade, I struggled with self-esteem and body image woes. I was lost, deep down in the gaping black hole of society’s expectations, continuously drowning in negative self-talk. Berating thoughts, churning through my mind as I stared abhorrently at my reflection, stung like acid on an open wound. Looking back at photos of my younger self - probably a good 30 to 40 pounds lighter than I am now - it pains me to think of all the wretched things that smart, vibrant, tenacious 20-something-year-old used to tell herself on the daily. It makes me sick to my stomach to imagine any one of my children, glancing in the mirror, thinking and feeling those same emotions. While social media tends to have a lot of faults, especially in its relentless perpetuation of the need for perfection (particularly when it comes to the competition that is motherhood), I can honestly say it was social media that nudged me out of the shadows of self-deprecation. I can recall an article by Australian writer, Kasey Edwards, entitled, “When Your Mother Says She’s Fat,” in which she details the vast difference between her childhood perception of her mother and the way her mother spoke about herself. It really struck a chord, echoing much of my own childhood. I decided I was going to make a conscious effort not to talk about my flaws in front of my children. I was determined whatever image they had of me in their credulous minds would not be tainted by my own negativity. It’s astounding just how much a simple change in your outer dialogue can affect your inner dialogue.
I began following pages from fellow mothers, some of whom happen to be fitness professionals trained in postpartum, who have made it their mission to be the voice of change in an industry teeming with monotonous vitriol. I decided I, too, had had enough with the “NO EXCUSES” approach to health and fitness, which only serves to shame others, suggesting they are inferior and unworthy for not adhering to a strict diet or fitness regimen. There are no diets or diet talk in my house. The scale that was once a taunting fixture in my bathroom is long gone. There are no good foods and bad foods, nor is food used as a punishment or reward. Food is food, it is fuel for our bodies, and that is what I teach my children. Yes, some foods, such as fruits, vegetables, and lean proteins, are the best kinds of foods for helping us grow strong and stay healthy, while other foods are simply yummy and fun to eat, but shouldn’t necessarily be eaten ALL the time. It’s all about balance. My children have never and will never see me diet or restrict myself. They often see me enjoy a second helping, but they also see me turn things down when I am full. As for working out, if that is your forte and a source of enjoyment then, by all means, “Go get it, girrrrl!” I simply have different interests. No, I don't spend hours a day in a gym. I don’t do crossfit. I’m not in a boot camp. I do not have a workout plan. Don't get me wrong, despite the hustle and bustle of life with three children, the never ending housework, the mountainous piles of laundry, the lunch making, the crafting, the studying for spelling tests, the bake sales, etc... I'm sure I could make time that was explicitly mine to workout or hit up the gym; however, at this particular moment in our fast paced world, my children are young and I see my time with them as limited. Not to mention, a full night's sleep is still a rarity in my house. As much as I enjoy the peaceful solitude of a jog around the neighbourhood at 5:30am when the sun has yet to wake, my youngest has other plans. He often enjoys lengthy snuggle sessions at all hours where he likes to be rocked, so I rock him, just like I rocked his sisters, and because he is my last baby and his affinity for being rocked will soon fade into a distant memory. It's the kind of memory I'd like to hold onto, so I rock him, which means the second he gets placed peacefully back in his bed, you can bet your ass I'm crawling back into mine. When I want to move my body, I take my kids on a hike through the woods or a walk around the block or to the park. I chase my toddler around my kitchen island until we’re piled in a laughing heap and out of breath. I race my daughters home from the bus stop. Then, with what tiny tidbits of my day are left that are not occupied by my children, my husband, or my friends, I want to park myself in front of the television and enjoy a show or movie, or read a book in solitude (which, in all likelihood, will last about 10 minutes before I pass out... because motherhood = exhaustion). I don’t have excuses. I have priorities that are rightfully and unapologetically mine.
I am now 6 years into motherhood, and still, I have moments where I find myself looking at my children, completely awestruck. I simply can’t help but think, "I made them. I made these incredible little people." My husband certainly helped provide the building blocks, yes... but my body took those building blocks and built three new human beings, from scratch. That's not something to simply brush aside. The miraculousness of pregnancy and childbirth should not be so willfully negated and replaced with shame and self-loathing, and yet we live in a society that pushes women into doing exactly that. The multi-billion dollar diet and weight loss industry preys on the insecurities of women, especially new mothers. With three children in tow, I am a walking target for the diet and weight loss industry. I have actually had MLM consultants seek me out on Facebook and send me friend requests in hopes of selling me their shit. Those lovely Facebook algorithms suggest my profile to them, because I have a young family, so obviously I am broken and in need of their expertise. Buy this diet! Take these pills! Drink this shake! Wrap yourself up in our overpriced saran wrap! For four easy payments of $79.95, we have the secret to help you get back to your pre-baby self – because, let’s face it, you look like you had a baby and nobody wants to see that! They so desperately want to “fix” me and magically transform me into the woman that I once was. Well, you know what?! I don’t want to be the woman that I once was, because I’m not her any more. My children have changed me in ways I never thought possible. The more I teach them, the more I learn about myself. They have made me better. Every stretch mark, every dimple, every envelope of loose skin that has been stretched beyond its means, is a reminder that my body did something extraordinary – something that, for a brief moment in time, I wasn’t sure I would have the privilege to experience (perhaps, we’ll save that for a later blog). So, for anyone reading who just so happens to rep for one of the MLM companies I alluded to above… if, by the end of your read and having had the opportunity to view my postpartum photos, you STILL want to even remotely suggest that I purchase whatever you're selling so that I may better myself in your name… go fuck yourself.
My children adore my soft belly. During my last pregnancy and well after my son was born, it was a daily ritual for me to lie down and bare my stomach so my kids could blow raspberries (aka zerberts) against my skin and laugh hysterically. They have told me that my belly is jiggly like Jello. They have also asked me why I have a jiggly belly and if my belly will always be that way, and I answer them honestly. My stomach jiggles, because I grew three babies and my skin had to stretch to make room for them. Some people grow babies and their skin goes right back to the way it used to be, other people’s skin stays stretchy. This is what growing three babies looks like on my body. My belly might shrink in time, it might not. Then I tell them, with pride, that I love my jiggly belly, because it gave me each of them. The funny thing is, I’m not just saying it. I cannot begin to tell you how refreshing it is to say the words, "I love my body" and actually mean it. Having these photos taken and being able to display them in our home was important to me, on a personal level, but most significantly, for my children. I want them to have a constant reminder that, despite whatever messages society tries to shove down their throats, our home is a place where we cherish our bodies for what they can do and not what they look like.
When I look at these photos, I see beauty. I see a woman who radiates pure joy. I see a woman who has achieved and overcome many things, but whose greatest accomplishments are the beautiful little beings clinging to her torso, pressed into her squishy tummy, suckling from her generous breast. I see impressionable faces gazing at me with the same awe and unwavering admiration that I hold for my own mother, and my heart feels ready to burst. I finally see myself in the gorgeous reflection staring back at me, and I finally love her, wholeheartedly.
Decades from now (hopefully), when my time is over, I'll be nothing more than a shell of the woman I once was, splayed on a cold slab in a mortuary. Those that never knew me can say nothing of my character or prowess, my likes or dislikes, or the contributions I made throughout my life. The only thing that will stand the test of time will be the evidence of a body that has given life. Those who knew nothing of me will be able to look at me and know one thing. I was a mother. If my only legacy in this life is my role in creating and nurturing these three precious humans... well, I am perfectly (and imperfectly) okay with that. ~~~
***Photos may not be copied and/or redistributed without permission.***
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