Although I entered my first pregnancy four years ago somewhat athletic, I exited my second feeling like a frumpy, postpartum sack of potatoes. At three months, the baby weight still hadn鈥檛 dropped off and with a pelvic floor that was effectively MIA, all the activities I loved were blacklisted.
I鈥檇 so desperately wanted to be 鈥榯hat mom鈥� who snapped back into shape within minutes of popping out a baby. Now, at six months post-baby, my regular jeans gather dust on the shelf; I can still grab handfuls of flesh that wasn鈥檛 there previously, and, if I鈥檓 being honest, I rarely have a positive conversation with myself in front of the mirror. My body feels alien to me and it鈥檚 a disheartening place to be, especially when (in between the very large chunks of yourself that you give away when raising children) you鈥檙e aching to feel just a teeny bit normal again.聽
But what is normal? Although we hear about miraculous women completing marathons with their seventh child strapped to their back and breast pumps attached to their front, a study published in the Archives of Family Medicine found 25 per cent of new moms didn鈥檛 feel completely recovered from childbirth at the six-month mark. Furthermore, a 2012 study found that many considered a year to be a more realistic timeframe.
Being physically perfect just weeks after giving birth isn鈥檛 鈥渘ormal,鈥� it seems, for most of us, no matter how much we might want it to be. To quote the article鈥檚 author, 鈥淯ltimately it doesn鈥檛 matter if going to the gym six weeks after delivery is normal. What matters is whether or not you are ready.鈥� (My physio, I think, would love this quote.)
So rather than wallowing in my own physical woes 鈥� focusing on what I can鈥檛 do 鈥� perhaps the postpartum period is actually presenting the rare gift of being able to start over, an opportunity to recalibrate life 鈥� to try something different, to learn a new skill or two. And perhaps, just maybe, revisit the old ones in time to come.
I鈥檓 not going to say that I still don鈥檛 feel a little glum whenever I see my training gear hanging untouched in the closet, or when I bump into the many incredible athletes in this town who juggle children and babies while looking amazing, but when your pelvic floor prevents you even running round the garden with the kids, you鈥檝e got to be a little realistic. It鈥檚 time, it seems, to dial down the physical intensity a notch.
So I鈥檝e made peace with my new best friends, pilates and swimming, and I鈥檝e accepted (through slightly gritted teeth) that I鈥檒l probably be doing kegels for the rest of my life. But that鈥檚 okay. It鈥檚 far better than the alternative.
I once respected my body for what it could do physically. Now I respect it for what it鈥檚 achieved (pushing out two children) and am awarding it the time and patience it rightly deserves. And when I next bump into one our town鈥檚 superb athletes, I鈥檓 going to keep my chin up, chase away the envy and admire their strength too, because we鈥檝e all been on physical journeys and there鈥檚 no telling what theirs might have been.
