I was 19 years old and in the middle of my third year of college. My life was, on track, but I was miserable. Then an anvil fell from the sky and landed on my head…actually the birth control failed, and perhaps if I had been paying more attention to my studies, instead of my boyfriend’s (now husband) boxer briefs, I would have been graduating in a few months.
But so far motherhood has been an experience I would not give up for anything in this world.
The first image that came to my mind as that little stick, whom I had just assaulted with my hot piss, told me that I could just kiss my youth goodbye because I was PREGNANT…was my mother’s belly: very soft to the touch, riddled with at least a hundred strechmarks starting from her sternum and going down.
I did not want that belly. Granted my mom had brought forth four children to this world, and I was carrying (thank ye god) just one, but there was no way in hell I was about to give up my ‘youth’ without a fight.
So my first purchase was a Jar of cocoa butter. And every day I made sure to just about coat my entire belly in that goey, scented mess, hoping, no, praying my skin would hold on tight.
I knew I was fighting a losing fight, since genetics are rather unforgiving, but I figured there was just a slight, slight chance, that I might not end up gaining a hundred pounds, just as she had with her two last pregnancies, but thankfully that choice wasn’t left to ‘genetics’, no, I doubt it was. That was the icky, picky stomach’s priority. Which meant I spent the first four months of my pregnancy vomiting until dry heaves left my throat raw.
No food could please. No smell was welcomed. I had lost 20 pounds by the end of my first trimester and did not gain those back until the eighth month mark when the doctor basically gave me no other alternative. I must admit, part of me was rather vainly admiring my lack of a weight gain, at first.
I figured my diet of prenatal vitamins, ramen noodles and apple sauce was the only thing I could stomach, and there was no point forcing myself to eat things I was just going to vomit back out.
But I soon started worrying about my daughter, and whether she was gaining enough weight was more important to me than looking svelte. Unfortunately, for the longest time I just could not find any interest in food. Even after the vomiting abated, I was still nauseous the rest of the pregnancy. A UTI and bacterial infection did nothing to improve my appetite. And stress definitely played a big part in the fact that at the 8 month mark, I weighted 147 pounds…which was exactly what I weighted when I got pregnant.
However, the last month I ate the only things I could stomach X 4. Lilo was born the morning after her due date, weighting in at 6 pounds 12 oz, and was healthy. Three months later, she’s 14 pounds heavy and I’ve stopped counting her rolls. I myself have not discouraged myself from stuffing my face full and have gained 15 pounds since giving birth. I figured that since I’m breastfeeding, I’m really doing her and I a flavor by taking double portions. And really, I loooove my new figure. Really. I spent my high school years trying to diet and starve away thighs that would never ever go away. It’s about time I start having a healthy relationship with food.
As for the stretchmarks, I was lucky this time around. Not a single one appeared. But I know I’m not out of danger just yet. Genetics, you sneaky little bastards. I know you’re just waiting for the second or third pregnancy to spring on my poor poor skin. I have to live with the work you did on my poor buttocks during puberty.
But I’ll be waiting.
With my giant jar of Cocoa Butter.
I won this round. Who cares if I’m perhaps fighting a losing battle. I plan on winning the next round as well!