she felt the entire debacle could have been prevented if I had been moving faster. When her then husband, an orthopedic surgeon named Stew, attempted to sew the top of my finger back to the base, the nurse asked him what kind of dressing he wanted. I yelled, “Ranch, please.” The operating room erupted in laughter. It was in that moment that I decided my childhood pain could be cured only by endless approval from strangers.
“I don’t know. I think my body is just still messed up from pregnancy,” I lied. The truth was, I knew exactly why I was walking like a pirate. I’d started working out again. And instead of easing my way back in like a normal person, I’d taken to running my ass off on the treadmill like I was going through a messy divorce. I knew getting back to my fighting weight was going to take time and I had every intention of being patient with myself.
That was until I looked in a full-length mirror. My hips were wider than they’d ever been, my face looked like I’d gotten stung by a hive of bees, and there was a bulge under my C-section scar that had me convinced my doctor forgot a pair of forceps inside me. I didn’t recognize myself. Growing to term had been such a slow process that I’d had time to wrap my head around the idea of wearing bigger jeans and not seeing my vagina. But the transformation from adorably healthy pregnant lady to non-pregnant sloth-monster was overnight. As a society, we grant expectant mothers leniency. We celebrate them and encourage them to flaunt their ripened bellies in bodycon bandage dresses. Up until the second their child hits fresh air. Then, instantly, we turn on them. We judge them. We diminish them. We demand they pull themselves back together, because just looking at them makes us feel hopeless and undesirable.
I tried to accept my new body with grace and confidence, outwardly, while internally shaming myself and struggling to get back to normal. Sometimes at night, I’d stand in the shower feeling like I was wearing seven-millimeter neoprene. My abdomen was still numb and from the side it looked like a mini continental shelf, dropping off sharply just below the bikini line. After a C-section, doctors suggest waiting sixteen weeks before engaging in physically strenuous activities. I was proud of myself for only waiting eight. I would walk into Barry’s Bootcamp, loudly tell my instructor to go easy on me because I’d just had a baby, and then haul ass next to whatever physically fit person was on the treadmill next to me. On days when I was feeling particularly rotund, I’d age Sid down to make my waistline look more impressive. With each week I shaved off his age, five pounds of expectation was lifted off my ass. In retrospect, I feel ridiculous for lying, but not enough to not do it again if I had a second kid or a thyroid problem.
My mom and John helped with our luggage while I hobbled to the backseat of their Jeep and strapped Sid in.
“You said you were going easy at the gym,” Jason said to me sternly once we were alone in the car.
“I am.”
“You are what?” my mom said, hopping in the front seat with Rocky and scrolling through her new pics.
“Happy to be here.” I smiled.
“Good! Some Moc time was way overdue!” My mom had taken to calling herself the Moc after my sister made her an Instagram account with the name watermoccasin25. She decided on “watermoccasin” because my mom was a water sign born in the Chinese year of the snake and the water moccasin was the only venomous water snake she could think of. Curiously, my mom took no offense—except just for a minute, after she learned that the water moc has large jowls due to its venom glands. Once she was assured that the nickname wasn’t a knock against her looks, she embraced it with enthusiasm. Calling her the Moc was sometimes easier than calling her Mom because it encapsulated the duality of emotions I had toward her. A water moccasin is a fun-time pit viper who
“I don’t know. I think my body is just still messed up from pregnancy,” I lied. The truth was, I knew exactly why I was walking like a pirate. I’d started working out again. And instead of easing my way back in like a normal person, I’d taken to running my ass off on the treadmill like I was going through a messy divorce. I knew getting back to my fighting weight was going to take time and I had every intention of being patient with myself.
That was until I looked in a full-length mirror. My hips were wider than they’d ever been, my face looked like I’d gotten stung by a hive of bees, and there was a bulge under my C-section scar that had me convinced my doctor forgot a pair of forceps inside me. I didn’t recognize myself. Growing to term had been such a slow process that I’d had time to wrap my head around the idea of wearing bigger jeans and not seeing my vagina. But the transformation from adorably healthy pregnant lady to non-pregnant sloth-monster was overnight. As a society, we grant expectant mothers leniency. We celebrate them and encourage them to flaunt their ripened bellies in bodycon bandage dresses. Up until the second their child hits fresh air. Then, instantly, we turn on them. We judge them. We diminish them. We demand they pull themselves back together, because just looking at them makes us feel hopeless and undesirable.
I tried to accept my new body with grace and confidence, outwardly, while internally shaming myself and struggling to get back to normal. Sometimes at night, I’d stand in the shower feeling like I was wearing seven-millimeter neoprene. My abdomen was still numb and from the side it looked like a mini continental shelf, dropping off sharply just below the bikini line. After a C-section, doctors suggest waiting sixteen weeks before engaging in physically strenuous activities. I was proud of myself for only waiting eight. I would walk into Barry’s Bootcamp, loudly tell my instructor to go easy on me because I’d just had a baby, and then haul ass next to whatever physically fit person was on the treadmill next to me. On days when I was feeling particularly rotund, I’d age Sid down to make my waistline look more impressive. With each week I shaved off his age, five pounds of expectation was lifted off my ass. In retrospect, I feel ridiculous for lying, but not enough to not do it again if I had a second kid or a thyroid problem.
My mom and John helped with our luggage while I hobbled to the backseat of their Jeep and strapped Sid in.
“You said you were going easy at the gym,” Jason said to me sternly once we were alone in the car.
“I am.”
“You are what?” my mom said, hopping in the front seat with Rocky and scrolling through her new pics.
“Happy to be here.” I smiled.
“Good! Some Moc time was way overdue!” My mom had taken to calling herself the Moc after my sister made her an Instagram account with the name watermoccasin25. She decided on “watermoccasin” because my mom was a water sign born in the Chinese year of the snake and the water moccasin was the only venomous water snake she could think of. Curiously, my mom took no offense—except just for a minute, after she learned that the water moc has large jowls due to its venom glands. Once she was assured that the nickname wasn’t a knock against her looks, she embraced it with enthusiasm. Calling her the Moc was sometimes easier than calling her Mom because it encapsulated the duality of emotions I had toward her. A water moccasin is a fun-time pit viper who
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