I saw it again today. The Huffington Post was talking about some model or actress "flaunting" her amazing, post-baby body. Meanwhile I am flaunting my doughy, totally-flawed, newly hippy, post-baby body. Post as in 12-months-post-baby. Although I am only eight pounds heavier than I was before getting pregnant, I'm starting to realize that the pressure placed on me to be back at my pre-baby weight is unbelievably ridiculous. I tend to oscillate between feeling depressed about this and feeling content with my new womanly figure.
Before I got pregnant, I was determined to have an impeccable and healthy pregnancy. I would be like my Facebook friends, who run five miles at eight months pregnant, then post pictures of their treadmill monitor. I felt so good about myself when I was killing it at spin class just eight weeks in. But when morning sickness caught up with me and I lost a significant amount of weight, I decided that working out was for the birds while nachos and Lucky Charms are for pregnant women. My doctor actually agreed with me. She wanted me to gain as much as I could because I was petite to begin with.
I ended up only gaining 25 pounds, which is modest for a pregnancy. So I thought I would be back to my swimsuit-ready figure in no time. But that isn't the way it's panned out. Of course I could wake up at 5:30 a.m. and run and exercise for an hour every morning before my son gets up, but he just started sleeping through the night. I could budget in a babysitter each week, but I would rather spend that time out with my husband—feeling like a normal 27 year-old, instead of killing it at the gym. I have priorities.