Time to Feel Human Again

I have been thinking recently about the many double binds mothers find themselves in today. If we stay home with our kids we are selling ourselves (and indeed, womankind!) short and regressing to an antiquated and misogynistic view of what it is to be female, yet if we go back to work we are bad mothers for abandoning our children. If we learn how to cook a chicken and make Family Dinner, we are abandoning our feminism by taking on traditional gender roles, yet if we slap chicken nuggets on the table we are poisoning our kids with chemicals (and supporting Big Ag!) by being too lazy and self-indulgent to nourish our children. If we watch our child's every move on the playground we are helicopter parenting and everyone gets nostalgic for the olden days when kids ran about unsupervised, but if we texts or email on the playground we are accused of being distracted and "missing out" on precious, fleeting moments. And if our skin, our muscles, our confidence, and our very self-image are shredded by the rigors and complications of pregnancy and childbirth, we are frowsy slobs who have "let ourselves go"and might as well buy a kilo of Mom Jeans and call it a day -- but if we elect to undergo surgical correction, we are laughably selfish, vain and hollow. We are constantly fighting against two extremes: frumpy, blundering and clueless, or Real Housewives, The pressure is unrelenting, and the criticism just another impossible trap to keep us trying, worrying, and ultimately failing.

I have struggled for 6 years with my stomach. By 2007, I had delivered three 9 lb. babies in 4 years. With each pregnancy I had hydramnios, which means my body produced excess amniotic fluid. The fluid increased with each baby, and when I had my third, I lost 25 lbs. on the delivery table. My abdomen was distended enough to appear to have twin humans growing inside of it -- I became accustomed to people joking, "Are you sure there's only one in there?" The jokes didn't bother me. They made me feel justified in feeling so stretched and so incredibly uncomfortable.

Six years later, I consider myself an athlete. Each week I cycle 50 - 100 miles, I run twice, I work with a personal trainer, and I practice Hatha yoga. I am at a good weight with a normal BMI. My diet is fantastic, healthy, sustainable, and reasonable. From the front I look fit, healthy and strong. My arms and legs are thin.

I never look at myself from the side. From the side, I truly look 6 months pregnant.

Every morning I go through the same battle over what to wear. How do I hide my belly? I can't wear loose clothing or, God forbid, an empire waist, because the drape over my belly looks like maternity clothes for sure. I can't wear a tight waistband, my abdomen bubbles over it all around and it hurts. So, I've learned to layer clothes. Layer upon layer upon layer of drapey, flowing fabric. My hope is that the layers disguise the stark contrast between my thin arms and the distended roundness of my middle.

Multiple layers are easy to wear in the winter, but the summer is a different story. I love to wear sundresses when it's hot. Every spring, as the weather warms and the sundresses resurface, so does The Question. The Question has come to define me. The question is asked of me, always by a woman (always a woman who should know better), always in public, always when I feel like my stomach might actually look pretty good today: "OH MY GOSH, SARAH, ARE YOU PREGNANT? I HAD NO IDEA!" The humiliation of that moment, that extreme impact as my pride hits the ground, is indescribable.

As I get older and the extreme muscle laxity in my abdominal muscles increases, so does the frequency of The Question. My husband knows to brace himself for what happens to me afterwards. Even if they aren't stupid enough to ask outright, at least once a day someone does a double take and wonder. I can't blame them. I would think I was pregnant too.

So. This is the year I decided to go against EVERY FEMINIST PRINCIPLE I HAVE EVER FELT DEEP DOWN IN MY VERY SOUL, and I elected a major surgical procedure for purely cosmetic reasons. Because I am vain. Because I am selfish. Because I am hollow.

No. Because I practically kill myself with sacrifice to give my children a good life and give myself a good body, and I have to live in this body every single day, and I actually feel hatred for a part of my body, and I do not want to go on feeling blindsided and humiliated every time I catch a glimpse of my profile, every time I go out with a friend, or every time I get The Question, forever. That's why.

Surgery is scheduled for July 30th at 1:00pm. PS says I have little abdominal fat so no lipo, but I'd like him to take some stubborn spots off my flanks as long as he's carving me up like a standing rib roast. DH is supportive but scared. My kids don't know. I will probably tell them it's a hernia because they are little and they will talk, and news will spread like wildfire around my small, tight-knit community. I don't want anyone to know. This is private, for me. My body. My life. My stomach. The down side to being so private is that I will have no support except for my beleaguered husband when this happens -- and hopefully from the RealSelf message board.

So, that's where I stand right now. I am trying to find ways to feel good about this, but really the only good thing is the idea of permanently putting it behind me. I can't imagine living in a body where I don't feel shame, where I don't have to tuck my beach ball into my pants every time I stand up. But that's what I'm going for, on a wing and a prayer. I don't know what lies ahead but I do know what's behind me, and I'm choosing to close this chapter and start a new one. One where I can wear a white t-shirt!

Thanks for reading this far. And good luck to everyone here.

1 day post-op. Feeling like hell. PS says he reduced my waist by 15 cm -!! -- and lipo'd out a litre from my flanks. That’s the good news, but I look ghastly. Super swollen and lumpy, with a small waist and hard masses of swelling under my hips that are making me look like a bloated hunchback wearing a waist cincher corset. Hoping that’s not permanent! I'm trying to walk regularly and use my volumetric exerciser, but everything hurts. Percocet is my best friend, two every 3 hours. Also, my lungs are full of gunk and lord knows I can't cough. Just trying to make it through this part, minute by minute. Hoping tomorrow is a better day, but I’m guessing that my better days won’t come for a while. Oh well -- no one to blame but myself!

Here's why I was regularly asked if I was pregnant. Granted, in 2 of them I am letting it hang out (not pushing out, just relaxed). But even when I held it in, I still looked pregnant in clothes.