Navel-gazing, part ???

Although I really do try not to get caught up in all of the parenting craziness around us here in the big city, we do in fact go to quite a few classes. Each week the fusspot has 2 scheduled activities and thanks to our indulgence in groupon/livingsocial/doodledeals we have any number of other cheap activities to sample a few times including music, art, gym, etc. No, this isn't a post about that per se. It's a post about the moms at these classes, and in particular their waistlines.

It has come to my attention that in every single activity that the fusspot and I attended in the past 2 weeks (dance, music, art, 1-hour preschool) I am by far the largest and most out of shape mother in the room. Oh, and I'm only 142 lbs (I was at the doctors today, more on that below). I know, I know, I live in an absurd neighborhood in an absurd city surrounded by incredibly wealthy women but still ... some of those women are 15 or more years older than I am, some of them have 3 or more children, some of them work much more stressful jobs than I do ...

And unfortunately it's not really about my weight. It is the fact that I never did diddly squat to fix my diastasis recti (hole in the stomach), I carried the dumpling straight out (going so far as to wear regular pants below the bump the week before he was due and my rings to the hospital), and quite simply despite being below my 'normal' weight I look newly postpartum. There is a very distinct lumpy mass around my belly button and it's not going to go away without a lot of work.

So while there are days that I vow to give up dessert and consider exercising (when, I have no idea. I guess at midnight when JD gets home), for the most part I am mad. Mad that the expectation is that not only will I do fertility treatments, birth children, nurse them and care for them round-the-clock but I am simultaneously supposed to look effortlessly trim and fit. Mad that weight has become an even more loaded issue than it was 30 years ago when my mother took -oh, let's see, 25 years- to lose all of the baby weight (but she looks fab now). Mad that all of the cheap t-shirts at GAP and H and M are super-fitted. Mad that we have no mirror so I often don't notice that my gut is hanging out until I'm already in the lobby of our building. Mad that at least once a week someone on the stupid NYC listserve I am on resurrects a discussion about the "very best spanx" out there. No, I am not going to wear an uncomfortable, modern girdle so that I look sexy for the weird guys on the subway or the homeless man in front of our building or my colleagues or even the other mothers I meet out and about. And everyone seems to expect me to spend quite so much time "hiding" my tummy fat, "concealing" the stretch marks, "minimizing" the focus on my weight (and yes, I am deeply thankful that I am in fact only self-conscious about my tummy and chest. The rest of my body looks just fine, thank you very much).

And for the record, I push 75-80s lbs in a double stroller a mile to and from daycare every day. I carry one or both of my children for a significant portion of the evening. I can easily carry 2 children up and down a flight of stairs (or 3). On weekends and non-work days we routinely walk 5 or more miles (with stroller, naturally). In short, I am not out of shape. It's just that the every day exercise I get is not going to give me a flat stomach.

I can't tell you how high a percent of blogs I read where the (female) author at some point declares diet time! and spends a week or two lauding some new system of losing weight. I have certainly done so myself. But I am just over it. Maybe I am nostalgic for a mythical past where women wore their moomoos with pride or at least granola crunchy contentment. I guess sometimes I just want to make it clear that I appreciate this body of mine and it's doing just fine right now and sex appeal for me will never be a bared midriff (not then, or now). And really, it is just fine to sit on the couch at night and work and read and then putter around in the kitchen.

But for all that I can shout my self-acceptance to the internets, I am sure that I will be self-conscious by the end of art class tomorrow morning and certainly by the end of dance class (where I spend a good hour running/stretching/dancing with my toddler, while carrying the dumpling in a sling. It is a work out). For once, it would just be nice to see one other normal, plump mother who has not squeezed/starved/lipo-ed herself into looking like a prepubescent girl at mommy and me class tomorrow. Or maybe I'm the only one who feels like our ideal body image is a little too artificial to work?

Ah yes, and now for a medical update. Subtitled: my even grubbier babies. It turns out that rin.gworm was just too easy after all. New diagnosis: impeti.go. Funny how the standard treatments are not an option for me so we may be about to proceed with a "lots of handsoap and wait and see" approach. Such fun. At least this doctor realizes it's a wee bit serious and scheduled me for a follow-up in 48 hours (it has spread to the bottom eyelid, which is a bit awful).