Having a post-baby stomach without the baby. These of us who know this actuality, make up a small membership. We’re mothers who have misplaced a baby, however nonetheless have that flabby, deflated bump, simply like the mothers who’re fortunate sufficient to clarify it away with a new child.
I’ve beforehand written about this mush of pores and skin rising three kids created, calling it a Momfin high as an alternative of a muffin high. I handled the matter with humor, as a result of in spite of everything, generally in case you don’t chuckle, you’ll cry. Now that I’ve suffered loss, I don’t plan to cease discovering the humorous in life. Even after a loss this life-changing, this brutal, this grueling and horrific and punishing, I nonetheless look down at my spare tire ruefully.
However this time, I really feel fairly hooked up to it. I like it there. It’s one in all the solely lasting connections I have to my baby, whom I need to attempt to be taught to reside without. She was in there, simply weeks in the past. We had been one, when this mound of flesh was inflated along with her promise.
So no, I’m not in such a rush to shed the baby weight, like I used to be once I had the honor, I now perceive, of cradling heat, stunning our bodies in opposition to my chunk of stomach. The opposite 3 times, I exercised feverishly, eschewed carbs, and hated on my post-baby physique. I even felt ashamed, and, inexplicably, tried every part to disguise the proof I’d simply given delivery: billowy shirts, corset-like undergarments, and strategically-placed diaper luggage.
Not now. Not after loss. I don’t really feel the similar form of disdain for my stomach. As a substitute, it’s a consolation. It’s a hyperlink to her, the baby I miss so desperately it hurts to transfer.
Positive, I’m exercising, however slowly, thoughtfully, and to be wholesome, not to get as skinny as doable as quick as doable. And I’m now not consuming my baby’s favourite deal with nightly: peanut butter and M&M’s. I need to lose some weight; it’s removed from a focus.
I’m a lot extra engaged in placing one foot in entrance of the different, therapeutic, discovering a approach ahead at a time when it feels pretty-much unattainable to imagine there is a approach ahead.
The toughest half is strolling round trying like I simply had a baby. I concern I’ll fall on the floor if somebody asks me about my post-baby stomach. However I can’t let that feeling management me. As a substitute, I strive to keep in mind the place I’m going: towards hope. All the pieces I do is with hope in thoughts. Hope that issues can get higher. Hope that I can get pregnant once more. Hope, hope, hope.
And this stomach? It’s the greatest illustration of hope I have. I could now not be pregnant with the baby I so desperately wished and love. However she’s with me. And now, I’m pregnant with, that’s proper, hope.
So don’t thoughts me cradling my rolls. I’m simply remembering her. Questioning if anybody else goes via this soul-crushingly painful paradox like I’m. Clinging to the perception that issues received’t all the time really feel this grim. And inhaling the chance that new life can quickly reside inside the empty house, behind what society sees as an imperfect physique, and what I see as a stunning reminder of her, my beloved, angel baby.