The Postpartum Mom Bod


Losing weight is nothing new for me. In the five years of my husband and I’s marriage I’ve been pregnant three times. Although the sacrifice of my skinny waist, smooth thighs and perky bustline for those three children was more than worth it, it still completely sucks.

Recently I’ve seen studies come out that highlight how the dad bod is the newest form of eye candy for the female race. Are you kidding me? Sorry husband I love your dad bod, but for real? I still believe that eye candy refers to the musclicous body of Thor (my only references for hot men come from movies that are appropriate for my four year old). I don’t think you will ever see a study that comes out that says the “the mom bod” is eye candy for the men. How can boobs that you can tuck into your jeans, a fluffy waist that equates to a pillow and stretch marked skin compare to Scarlett Johansson? It’s just not going to happen.

Enjoy your ability to stuff as many donuts in your mouth and still be sexy dads while us moms carefully make a piece of string cheese and an apple look as appetizing as a chocolate dunked oreo and attempt to sweat our booty off doing more exercise than you have ever completed in your high school glory days of football. I’m just saying that this totally sucks.

I’m currently four months postpartum after giving birth to my third child. As she continues to grow new crevices for breast milk to hide in overnight I torture myself with random fat burning routines to rid myself of the crevices that my sweat pours into. This has not been easy. I haven’t lost a single freakin’ pound since she was four weeks old even though I breastfeed exclusively, workout five times a week and am somewhat careful about the food that goes in my body.

Is it because she’s the third child?

Has my body just given up all hope and surrendered itself to be a baby growing machine for life?

Did it forget that in order to be a baby growing machine I had to be a baby making machine first and I’d feel more like baby making if I could fit into my lingerie?

My body just will not give it up.

It sucks.

It really, really, really sucks.

Even my shoes refuse to be worn by my fat feet, an extra gift from pregnancy.

People are constantly drenching their words in sugar when they talk to me about my struggles with this body after my last baby. Their words are so sweet that it makes me gag. I know that it will eventually come off. I know she’s only four months old. I know my body is busy concentrating on making milk. I understand all of that, but it doesn’t help me when looking at my heart rate monitor I see the calories I’ve burned over the past month and do not see the scale budging one little bit. Even a half a pound would be nice. Just something.

And finally I talk to a friend that gets it.

“I lost fifteen pounds in a month as soon as I stopped breastfeeding.”

You mean this amazing act of producing milk to feed my growing chunky baby could be the reason I am not losing weight?

And finally my doctor lets me know that he gets it.

“It may be the stress and lack of sleep that is causing you to not lose weight.”

You mean the sleep that I cannot get because I am up feeding my always hungry baby is causing me to not lose weight? The stress from trying to survive the days and nights with three young children is causing me to hold onto my rolls that can only be concealed with high waisted jeans?

I finally breathe a sigh of relief.

I just wanted someone to tell me that even though I stood up my favorite ice cream and decided to torment myself with the act of running that the lack of weight loss was not my fault. My body refusing to drop off any extra flubber is because it’s just not ready.

It’s not that I want to totally embrace the fact that my body isn’t ready because I was ready weeks ago, it’s that it is out of my control.

I’m okay with that.

For now. 




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