that thing i thought i hated

View on this morning's run, Birch Bay, Washington, August 2012

My father is a runner. My mother is a runner. My sister is a runner. My grandfather was a long-distance runner. Running is in my blood.

But, up until about six weeks ago, I thought I hated running. My dad used to run track, and he wanted me to run in high school. "Do something with a finish line, something that's not so subjective," my dad said to his dancer daughter. Envious of my Mother/Father/Sister's obvious post-run sweat-streaked high, I dabbled in running. I tried running on family vacations in San Diego, on the beautiful flat boardwalk, and ended up with an aching tongue and itchy legs, two of the strangest running-related maladies ever. 

The only time in my life that I've run regularly was for a few months during my sophomore year in college, when I was suffering through a significant break-up, so miserable and angry that all I could do was try to run away from my heartbreak. It gave me a modicum of peace (though the antidepressants were undoubtably more helpful), but I didn't enjoy it. Since then, whenever the subject of running has come up, I've thought how glad I am to be happy enough that I don't have to run!

But then, two months ago, a weird thing happened. I started thinking about running. I read an article in - of all places - Real Simple magazine about a group of non-running women who started running. One mile. That's what they ran to start. And I thought I could do that. Not because I'm unhappy. Not because I'm desperate, or angry, or running away (except for that one morning, when both kids were hollering as I shut the door and ran down the driveway, boy did that feel good). Just to see if I like it. Because it's fast. Because you can do it anywhere. Because all you need is a pair of shoes. Because I'm on a quest to lose the rest of The Baby Weight before The Baby is doing arithmetic. 

Mikhail made me a short playlist of high-energy tunes. I watched two videos of "How to Run" on YouTube.

I ran one mile. And it felt fine. I ran nice and slow, and only one mile. My tongue didn't ache. My legs didn't itch.

So I ran again. One mile.

When we were in San Diego with my family, everyone got quite a kick out of asking me, "How was your run?" A standard question in my family, and now it was directed to me. I lengthened my run to 1.5 miles. I ran up the steep hill. 

In New Jersey, I went for a run the day after taking an overnight flight. When I came home, my Dad said, "Whenever I run after an overnight flight, I feel like my legs are full of lead." He captured the exact sensation.

In Portland, I ran with a friend, and she (gently) pushed me to run much further than I have alone. We ran over 3 miles, and I wasn't even sore the next day.

This morning, I went on my 15th run.

Maybe I am related to these people after all.

one year ago

A year ago, I was pregnant.

I went to the pool a lot.

Sometimes with my pregnant friends.

Elan was already telling the baby jokes.

Did I mention? I was VERY pregnant.

But soon not to be.

At 2 a.m., I woke up. It was pouring. First I heard the rain, then I felt the sensation of the contraction. It was the baby's due date and a full moon. I couldn't believe the baby would really be so precisely punctual, but the contraction felt different than the ones I regularly got around the clock, so I got out of bed. Made cream of wheat. Read Blink on the couch. Timed the contractions. Told the baby I was really ready to not be pregnant anymore, and wasn't he/she ready to come out and meet everyone?

I promised a lot of yummy milk.

The contractions stayed about 10-15 minutes apart, so eventually I went back to bed.

Elan woke up and went to preschool.

The contractions were still 10-15 minutes apart. Between them, I'd think that maybe I run out and pick up that nursing bra I hadn't bought yet. But then, one would come, and I'd think Not a good idea.

I went for a walk to try to speed things up. I walked very slowly. I kept expecting someone to notice me, walking around my neighborhood, in labor, alone, with my cell phone in my pocket. But I only had one contraction the whole walk, leaning over the splintery railing by the path in the greenway, so I guess I wasn't that noticeable.

Mikhail brought me Thai chicken coconut milk soup, a sudden craving, and over several hours, I ate the whole container.

Elan came home from preschool. I hung out with him on the couch, reading him books. Every 10-15 minutes, I'd roll onto the floor and have a contraction. It freaked him out a lot less than I thought it might.

At 3 p.m., I told my amazing midwife that I wanted to come in to the hospital, but I was afraid I'd only be dilated to 2 centimeters. (In labor 4 years before with Elan, I got to the birth center where I delivered already dilated to 8 cm after laboring at home for 20 hours.) She assured me that she'd never had a second-time mom come in at less than 4 cm. I wanted to be in the water, and I couldn't fit in our little tub, so we decided to go for it.

Some neighbors saw me shuffling down the driveway to the car, while Mikhail loaded it up with all our stuff, and they called out Good luck! I thought - I guess I really am in labor.

The ride to the hospital was surreal. Everything looked so NORMAL outside the car window. It was Friday afternoon, and people were out doing their Friday afternoon, beautiful fall weather, thing. I only had one contraction during the 10 minute car ride. After that one contraction, I was glad I didn't have more.

My midwife Lindy was there waiting for me, at the nurse's desk. She got me a room with a big jacuzzi tub, like we had planned. She checked me. "Well, it's your worst fear," she said. "You're 2 centimeters."

Ha!

But then she was very comforting. She told me to take my time. "I've got my magazine so I'll just hang out a while," she said. She'd send me home if there was no baby by morning. It was 4:20 p.m. I was still having contractions 10-15 minutes apart.

I got in the tub. Everyone left me alone. I listened to music, rubbed my huge firm tummy, nearly weightless in the water, felt the baby move and wondered who was going to come out. Here we are kid, I thought, back in the water, where the best moments of this uncomfortable pregnancy had been spent. I had been feeling a little freaked out by the hospital, but in the tub, I got my head together. You've done this before, I told myself. You know what to do. Just relax and let your body do it.

I got out of the tub and decided to take a walk. But I never made it out the door of my room. Every time I'd head for the door, I'd have another contraction. And these were big ones, coming on every few minutes. Finally! It looked like the baby was in on the plan.

And then it hurt. More than I remembered. I've had 2 natural births now, with no meds, and I can say: there is pain. It's a whole heck of a lot of work. There's a reason they call it labor. But if you have a good situation - a great midwife and/or doula, and no complications - it's worth it. Your body makes the natural pain relief, which helps; you can stay completely active, birth in the position you want to birth in; you can feel nifty sensations like the baby's feet "walking" down your spine as he turns; and the high afterward is INCREDIBLE. I'm sure all women feel like super-stars after growing and birthing another human being, as they should. But I can say that my experience of natural birth is that, afterward, I felt like I could do anything. Which was especially helpful while recovering from my first baby's birth, which took longer and was more painful than I expected. Not to mention that whole adjustment to being responsible for a tiny, helpless human. I frequently thought back to my superhero birth powers and felt buoyed by them over the course of Elan's first few months.

But, yeah, it hurt. My mom came in the room, and I called her over to me by wailing Mommy!! I'm not sure if this alarmed or touched her, as I haven't called her "Mommy" in several decades. But that's what birth will do to you; you shed all the non-essentials; you become the most focused version of yourself, one is so intent on doing what you're doing that you don't give a damn who happens to come in the room and see your nether regions on full display.

I had an amazing team of midwife, husband and nurse all helping me. One would work on my back with each contraction, and this is not just a casual hand - this is putting some real weight into it. Though this labor was less back labor than my first, that strong counter-pressure still really helped me. The best position was standing next to the bed, leaning over it, rocking and swaying my hips. After contractions, they warmed me up. During, they cooled me off. Lindy put cold cloths on my forehead.

Sidenote: Recently, on a random Tuesday, Elan turned to me with a look of shock on his little face. "We don't have a video of when Emry was born!" he exclaimed. I had to stifle a laugh.

"That's true," I said. "But we have one of when you were born."

"I want to see it," he said.

"Actually, I don't think you do. When a baby comes out, there's a lot of blood."

"Ew, I don't wanna see that. Dis-gust-ing!"

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Anywhere, where was I? Oh, yeah, birthing a baby one year ago.

My midwife and I had come up with a little game plan of what we wanted to try for the birth, which included birthing on my side and trying to push the baby out between contractions. Amazingly, these both worked. Mikhail found the whole thing pretty interesting because he was beside me, holding my leg; when Elan was born in the tub, Mikhail was behind me, meaning he got a worse view than I did. But this time, he saw everything! Lucky guy!

Later, Mikhail told me that, as he was watching the baby's head crown, he kept picturing a 2-month-old's head size, and could not imagine that this whole birth thing was going to work. Thankfully he kept that observation to himself at the time. When Emry was actually born, he was shocked at how tiny his head actually was (it was smaller than Elan's, thank you!).

Once my water broke as I pushed, and we got through the ring of fire (that song has never been the same for me since having babies), and I did some good old fashioned screaming, Lindy told me to push again, and a hot, slippery little baby came out. I tell you, I think even if you birthed 12 babies, there would still be a part of you shocked that after all that - 9 months of nausea and insomnia and heartburn and varicose veins and backache and general slow lumbering quality of life, plus the labor itself - a BABY COMES OUT. Just amazing.

Mikhail announced It's a boy!

And there he was.

The Aforementioned Slippery, Ruddy and Oh-So-Sweet Baby Boy, aka Mr. Emry Isaiah Brams Davis, all 7 pounds, 15 ounces of him, born at 8:30 p.m. on October 22, 2010.

Everyone oohed and aahed over him. Lucky baby, he had 3 grandparents in attendance (my parents and my mother-in-law), and my sister-in-law dropped in just after he was born.

His big brother came to visit.

And took him for a ride around the hospital.

The promised yummy milk was provided, and he was a fan.

I could keep going like this all night, but I have laryngitis and a wicked cold, and my baby just turned 1 year old, so I'm feeling a little emotional and should get some sleep.

So just one more... for now.

This is what happens when you teach the big brother how to swaddle his doll before the baby arrives.

Did it make you look twice?

other peoples' postpartum

My friend Kristina wrote an awesome post about her postpartum body experience. It looks by the comments that this is a topic that really resonates with the mamas.

And I was cheered to see Penelope Cruz rockin' just the slightest bit of postpartum tummy. She looks awesome AND like she just had a baby. Well, at least by Hollywood standards she looks like she just had a baby.

Photo credit: People Magazine online. (I read it; I admit it.)

march/april: patience & a plan

New Year's Resolution: Lose 20 pounds. Months 3-4.

I've been thinking a lot about patience. Before I became a mother, I knew that patience would likely be one of my biggest challenges once I had kids (that, and getting up early in the morning). And lo and behold, I was right! (A plus to having children in your 30s instead of in your bounce-back, energetic, can-get-no-sleep-and-still-function-just-fine-thank you very much 20s: you know yourself better).

There's having patience with my kids, which some days is hard, and then there's having patience with myself, which is often harder. When Elan melts down for the tenth time in a day, I do get impatient, but I also can look at his little turned-down sad face and feel empathy for how difficult life is feeling for him right now. Same for Emry.

But when I have a melt-down type of day myself, it's difficult to muster the same sense of compassion for myself. And it's even more challenging to feel compassion for myself when I don't live up to the high standards and lofty goals I would like to meet, day in and day out. In a nutshell, I'm often too hard on myself (sound familiar?). So lately I've been thinking of patience as forgiving myself and others, over and over and over again. Many tiny little forgivings punctuating the course of my days. Because as annoying as it is when I forget to pay the credit card bill on time, it's not worth beating myself up over. I've got bigger fish to fry. (Not to mention a stellar record of getting late fees waived as a "one-time special exemption.")

This might sound like the lead-up to saying I haven't made any progress on my fitness, well-being & weight loss goal for the year. Which is actually not true. I've lost round about 6 pounds. Woo hoo! It is less than I had hoped for at this point, but most importantly I am seeing progress, and I am feeling so much stronger than I did in January. I make a point of reminding myself of this - notice how easy it feels to walk to Elan's preschool compared to how I was huffing and puffing back in January - because I see how easy it is to lose perspective on where you are versus where you came from. Recognizing the little victories along the way is just as important as making the final destination. Because, of course, once I get there, I'll find other goals for myself (no, not running a marathon - that's never going to make my life list).

March and April have been about patience and a plan. Have a plan, try my best to follow it, and practice lots of tiny forgivings when it doesn't go exactly that way. Life as improv as my mother-in-law says. We're practicing lots of that around here these days. Some things that have been working for me: I've been going to Zumba class, where I get to shake my groove thing (a happy work-out, I love it!). After a weekend of too many cupcakes, I did a super-chill mini cleanse by going 5 days without sweets except in liquid form (hot chocolate was allowed). I'm trying to move my body most days, even if it's just going for a walk with the boys. Extra points for wearing Emry in the Ergo.

My new goals for April are to take at least one Pilates mat class and to put Emry in childwatch at the gym at least one time. I've never left him with a non-family member so it might be a little challenging at first, and I know I need to get over that hump if I'm going to get more gym workouts in.

Please don't cry bubula, I promise they'll be nice to you.

february: building momentum

New Year's Resolution: losing 20 pounds, Month 2.

January was about getting going; February is about building momentum. At the end of January, I was feeling pretty good about my plan. I had lost 2 pounds, not much, but a start. I was thinking that if I just kept up a slow and steady pace, I might make my goal. So I made February about building momentum, keeping the same basic plan as January with the addition of eating more whole grains and fewer simple carbs.

Then February started, and my baby's cold became more disruptive to us both. When you're waking up every hour from 1 to 7 a.m., motivation gets a little fuzzy. I've been trying to stick to my plan as much as possible while being super-gentle with myself. So a little more easy energy with fast carbs, but still trying to not go crazy on the sugar and to be in motion every day, which is important for my psyche as well as my body. Keeping my eye on the (long-term) prize.

And in the meantime, I looked through my photos for an inspiration shot. This was taken at my sister's wedding in June 2008, when Elan was 19 months old. I had been doing Pilates on the machines and a stroller-exercise class. Elan had recently stopped nursing and my body didn't need to hold on to that last 5 pounds. I felt good about my post-partum body, especially given that I was the only bridesmaid (wearing super-clingy silk) who had had a baby.

Check out how gorgeous my sister the bride is!

Of course, at the end of the night, as I slumped on the couch exhausted at 2 a.m., the woman who was doing childcare for the kids asked me if I was expecting my second baby.

I did not hit her upside the head. That took some restraint.

resolute!

It's late January, and I haven't written about New Year's Resolutions. How is this possible? Where is the time going?

Oh, yeah, the hours are eaten up by staring at my beautiful baby. He's so cute! How does anyone get anything done with such a cute baby?

See what I mean?

Anyway, I have big hopes for 2011. Jobs, health, good sleep... but the one I want to write about here & now is getting my body back.

That is such a phrase -- "getting my body back." It makes me cringe. After all, this is my body, even if, at a casual glance, I don't recognize my reflection in shop windows. And this body has produced such marvels: two children, through trials and tribulations and labor (natural, x 2!) and months of morning sickness, back pain, and heartburn! Not to mention nursing, and the copious leg chub Emry is producing from my breast milk.

(Pause to squeeze ridiculously soft and squishy leg chub -- his, that is.)

And yet... I do want my body "back." I know it won't be exactly what it was before. I'm okay with that (at least I am 99% of the time). My body is feeling so much better than when I was pregnant. But I am carrying a lot more weight than I would like to be, and my automatic post-partum weight loss has stopped. When Elan was about 3 months old, I had also reached a weight loss plateau. But this time I've plateaued at a higher number. Darn that slowing metabolism.

I feel the effects of carrying extra weight in my feet, my back, my shoulders. And I certainly see the effects. I'm talking to you, little belly that makes me still look 3 months pregnant.

My New Year's Resolution is to lose 20 pounds and feel healthy, vital and strong, while keeping up my milk supply (meaning no drastic cleanses or crazy diets, not that that's my style anyway). Using healthy weight loss (hello willpower), I'd like to fit back into my size 6 jeans by the summer. Wow - writing that makes me feel anxious. What if I don't meet my goal, after I've announced it here, in a public forum, and everyone knows?? Confronted!

I've decided to come up with new plan every month. That way I don't feel too locked into anything, and as my body becomes more fit, I can ramp up my exercise without getting injured (like the knee injury I suffered as a result of overzealous spin classes after my miscarriage). My plan for January is simple and pretty easy to follow. It's designed to get me going, and hopefully see just enough change to inspire me to ramp it up (as opposed to feeling overwhelmed, giving up, and gorging on Nutella, which sounds mighty appealing).

Plan for January -- Getting Going:

- Some exercise daily, including walks, sun salutations, stomach exercises for my diastasis.

-2-3 longer or more intense workouts a week (swimming, yoga class, cardio on the bike/eliptical at the gym)

-Max 2 sweet treats a day (1 sweet treat = 1 cookie, 1 hot chocolate, a small piece of chocolate, etc.)

-Try to reach for fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and protein rather than seeking a quick and easy energy boost in white-flour carbs.

-Take vitamins & Omegas.

-Drink lots of water & herbal tea.

I've been doing this since January 10, and most days have been a success. There was that one episode with the chocolate cake. But for the most part, this month's plan is easy and liberal enough to stick with. Ironically, the last one - drinking more water and herbal tea (because it's hydrating, low-cal and a change of pace from H2O) - is what I've done the least, and it's got to be the easiest one.

As I write this, I realize I have no idea if this kind of thing is interesting for others to read. It seems rather self-indulgent to outline my weight loss plan on my blog. But based on the number of post-partum mamas I know, and on the number of weight loss advertisements I see everywhere this month, I figure it's a topic on a lot of peoples' minds. And by writing it here, I will feel a need to follow up. Accountability! (And besides, a blog is rather inherently self-indulgent anyway, is it not?)

And now, a reward for those of you who have made it to the end of this post:

Squeezable fun for everyone.

one thing i've learned

I was writing a post about New Year's resolutions, but I didn't finish it, and when I came back to it, I was in a different mood, a different place, a different person. That's the danger of not finishing something -- I either wait until the mood comes back around again, have to force myself back into it, or let it go.

I will finish the post about New Year's resolutions, I will!

But suddenly at 4:00 yesterday afternoon, the weariness set in. I don't know how else to describe that kind of tiredness that makes you wish that, more than anything, you could just lie down. And when the baby wemers from his vibrating chair to nurse two minutes after I've plopped into a mostly-prone position on our deteriorating couch (which was not so comfortable to start with), I feel a little dizzy propelling myself up again. That kind of weary.

So as soon as someone else was available to look after Elan, I took to my bedroom. I hadn't done this in a while, but it brought back memories of night after night of terrible first-trimester sickness, when I'd hide out in my bedroom from the smells of food, and later in the pregnancy-that-went-on-forever, when I'd collapse into bed in the early evening, my body exhausted and sore from the rigors of a day spent defying gravity.

I got into bed with the baby, nursed him, watched a bad TV show on hulu. Let myself ignore the state of my messy downstairs, my father-in-law's visit (I knew he'd understand), Elan's bedtime. My body, so much more active than it was a few months ago, or even a handful of weeks ago said: Retreat. Rest. Lay down.

And so I did.

And then I took a very hot bath, drank water, ate chicken coconut milk soup, and socialized a little bit.

It's a lesson I really did learn from the pregnancy-that-went-on-forever: sometimes you just need to retreat.

And watch some bad TV.

solace

There's a lot going on these days -- in my world, in my body, in my mind. I'm a little bit overwhelmed. Job & work stuff makes me stressed. Packing up the teeny tiny clothes that Emry, in his 2-month-old plumpness, has already outgrown makes me nostalgic. Elan has been doing an A+ job of pushing my buttons, and then I get mad, and then I get sad that I feel mad and overwhelmed and nostalgic and stressed. All at the same time.

Maybe there are some post-partum hormones going on there too.

Just maybe.

I found a post on The Pioneer Woman's blog that is gives me comfort & perspective right now. Maybe I'll make a daily practice of looking at these pictures. And doing yoga. Taking hot baths. Deep breathing.

You get the idea.

And though my perfect baby seems to be learning how to fuss (which makes me feel stressed, overwhelmed, sad & nostalgic), when he is happy (as he is now, cooing in his vibrating chair), in him I find solace.

yes, i did

Raise your hand if you've ever gone bathing suit shopping when you're 7 weeks postpartum.

I didn't think so.

I'm not so much brave as desperate. As I mentioned recently, swimming is an awesome mind-cleanser for me, and Elan is putting us through the wringer, so I need a good mind-cleanser right about now. And the bathing suit I wore all through my pregnancy was starting to put me at risk for indecent exposure so...

I started with one-pieces. I thought they would be more flattering. But this was an athletics store, so they were all Speedo and TYR and no no no no no.

Surprisingly, my regular fave the 2-piece still felt more comfortable, and looked better, "better" being a very relative term here.

In the dressing room, I kept telling myself 9 months on, 9 months off, and laughing. I laughed a lot, actually. Out loud. This crazy body, with its unaccustomed pads and rolls and ripples and soft spots where the muscle might be hiding deep in there somewhere - it doesn't even feel like my body. I guess that's the main difference between last time and this time. This time, it doesn't feel quite so personal. Mostly, I just wish I felt stronger - less wibbly-wobbly and injury-prone. I've been taking walks with Emry in a front carrier in part to slowly strengthen my core, which is not the steely core you want when you've got 2 kids, one of them giving you the run-around. It's more like a rubbery core right now. Rubber that's melted...

You get the idea.

Anyway, I've got this guy:

And he's so very worth it.

just add water

Today, I got back into the pool. There were a few big hurdles to surmount: 1) the baby had to get his first bottle, an event which makes me tear up with the thought he doesn't need me anymore, but that I know is necessary if I'm going to have some freedom in the many months of nursing to come and 2) I had to deal with the bathing suit situation.

I should back up for a minute. The last few months of my pregnancy, after I hurt my back and couldn't do much walking anymore, I swam as much as I could. When I was in town, I swam nearly every day. When I was traveling, I googled nearby pools. Water is fabulous therapy for me. Baths calm me down; showers clear my mind. But swimming is the best. It leaves me relaxed and energized at the same time, and as I stroke along in the water, I often find myself having realizations about issues I am stuck on.

I feel really lucky to have this relationship with a form of exercise. Some people run; some people walk; I swim. I've never swum competitively, and I'm not particularly fast. Swimming laps regularly is a fairly new addition to my life that I really came to rely on during my first pregnancy. And though it requires more equipment than running and doesn't give you quite the same view, it's easy on the joints and something I'll be able to do for the rest of my life.

So anyway, there I was, hugely pregnant in my two-piece suit, waddling my way out to the pool nearly every day. Past 37 weeks, being in the water was the thing that was keeping me sane. I felt so *filled up* by this other life; the baby had taken over my body and mind such that I couldn't focus or deal with things the way I usually do. But in the water, I still had some semblance of grace. I could move lightly. During the autumn heat waves, the pool was the one place I wasn't sweating. I could turn and float. A respite from gravity.

I kept starting to write about my relationship with swimming while I was still pregnant, but everytime I did, the post devolved into lists of the comments I got. Of course, I couldn't really blame people. I was pretty noticeable, with my giant belly and my two-piece bathing suit, the bottoms so worn-out from constant chlorine exposure that they were white and ragged. I was praying the baby would come out before I ended up exposing myself indecently, because I refused to buy new bottoms in the size that would be necessary. I told myself that my belly was so giganticly distracting that no one would notice the state of my bottoms.

Here's that list of what people said to me at the pool:

"Any day now, right?" (starting around 6 months)

"It must feel so good to get into the water" (yes, it does)

"How much weight have you gained, or is that an inappropriate question?" (uhhh...)

"When's that baby coming?" (wish I knew -- ask him/her)

"Wow" (succinct)

Then there was the man in the jacuzzi (yes, I went in the jacuzzi for a few minutes sometimes - I was careful not to boil the baby) who came up to me, blocking the stairs, staring at my belly with concerned eyes: "You know you are going to have a baby any day now?" At first I thought maybe he was a super experienced OB who could tell when a baby was coming, and I wanted to say: "Tell me when!" But then I feared that he was just another Berkeley weirdo, and so I just raised my eyebrows at him like: "this? it's just a watermelon I like to strap to myself for kicks."

And finally: "You should really take a picture of yourself in that bathing suit."

38.5 weeks, 10 days before Emry was born

So today, with Emry 6 weeks and 1 day old, he got his first bottle of breastmilk (cue hormonal mama sniffle). I wished futilely that I possessed a one-piece bathing suit, then swallowed my pride, put on an old two-piece, and slid into the water. Like an old friend, it embraced me. My body felt infinitely different, and yet comfortingly similar. My same old skin, just stretched out here and there. My arms pulling, my legs kicking, my heart pumping, the sound of my own breath in my ears.

And when I was done, I got to steam myself in the jacuzzi, and no one raised an eyebrow.

post partum

Let's get real about the post-partum body, shall we? We don't all look like this:

Jessica Alba, 3 months post-partum

Or even better, like this:

Rebecca Romijn, 6 weeks post-partum after TWINS

In fact, very many of us new moms - I would guess the majority - look more like this:

me, 2 weeks post-partum

I remember after Elan was born I was a bit shocked by the belly that remained. The same shape as what it had been, just shrunken down, empty and slack. The skin was soft and brown, and I completely identified with how Anne Lamott described her belly three weeks after her son was born in Operating Instructions:

"Oh, but my stomach, she is like a waterbed covered with flannel now. When I lie on my side in bed, my stomach lies politely beside me, like a puppy."

This time I was prepared for my puppy-belly, and grateful to discover that, despite the tremendous growth at the end of my pregnancy, the stretch marks below my belly button were fairly minimal and already a worn-out silvery color.

This time, I am a proud of my post-baby belly. After all, I grew an entire complete human being in there, and it wasn't an easy job. I didn't even mind much when a saleswoman at lululemon thought I was pregnant and advised me to buy a size up because "you're just going to grow bigger." I laughed, and pointed to my one-week-old asleep in his stroller beside me. "Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm only going to get smaller," I said.

4 weeks post-partum

Day by day, Emry grows bigger and rollier, and my belly shrinks down little by little. It is a visible symbol of our separation into distinct people, as well as a reminder to myself that it hasn't been very long since I gave birth, and I still need to take it easy.

I'm pretty sure that celebrities walking the red carpet a few weeks post-partum have stretch marks too, and they're likely wearing some major structural support garments to squeeze that belly into a designer dress. It's a silly ideal to hold up for women - how fast can you lose the baby weight; how fast can you "have your body back"? Not to mention potentially a destructive ideal: Jessica Alba's trainer said she exercised for one hour a day, 5-6 hours a day, and stuck to a 1700-calorie-a-day diet in order to lose the baby weight fast. It's hard to imagine that many women could keep up their milk supply to nurse with that kind of strain on their body. Of course, it is a celebrity's job to look good, and they have the resources (trainers, nannies) to make it happen. I'm certainly not against feeling good, looking good, and being active. I'm just against setting unreasonable standards for women in the already-delicate post-partum period.

And besides, as my midwife pointed out, the post-baby belly makes a perfect nursing shelf. As I snug Emry in between his old home and his new favorite place, I think eventually I will "get my body back" and then how I will miss this.