Dieting in a Post-Post Partum World

Imagine a world where the more a woman eats, the better.  Everyone around you offers food of every variety, telling you to go for seconds and thirds even when you’ve twice exceeded the intake of an adult male.  Said adult male stocks the kitchen with whatever your heart desires, and is willing at 2am to venture through rain and snow to retrieve your most bizarre cravings.  Your body gets exponentially bigger, but all you receive when you go out is praise for your growing figure.  Strangers will ask to touch and even kiss your enormous belly.  If you guessed I was describing a wealthy woman during the Renaissance period you’d be right, but it’s no different than the life of a pregnant woman.

The perks don’t stop there – once your bundle of joy arrives, Operation Milk Factory begins.  You’re told to eat and drink constantly to ensure enough milk is being produced for baby.  Your appetite is somehow even more voracious than it was during pregnancy and you begin to think of yourself as a magic food genie – whatever you desire can be yours – immediate and guilt-free. 

Then suddenly, the clock strikes midnight and you look less like (chubby) Cinderella and more like her buddy Gus Gus in tattered maternity clothes and smelling faintly of curdled milk.  Even Michelangelo has grown tired of painting you and your friends in the buff out in the garden.  The baby pounds that initially melted off you settle into a comfortable tire formation around your waist.  Your breastfeeding pound allowance which had remained stagnant starts slowly increasing.  And the worst part, the part that stops you in your buffet line tracks – are the questions.  “Did you just have the baby?”  “Are you still wearing maternity clothes?” “When can you start working out again?”  No, yes, and maybe never. 

My sister (my go-getter, runs marathons for fun sister) reached out to me recently, asking me if I wanted to eat clean with her for a week. We could be eating buddies and support each other in moments of weakness.  I responded with a resounding YES, as that was exactly what I needed – a sponsor!  I was excited and ready to end the hostage situation I had going on with food.  The first day started with promise – I was able to avoid ordering my usual Monday french fries with lunch, but there was a definite sadness that came after.  More sadness than I would have felt had I eaten the french fries.  I deftly avoided a chocolate chip cookie that was basically placed in front of me by a coworker – but only because it happened to be crumbly and stale (I have my standards).  I’ll chalk that up to divine intervention, but either way, it did not get eaten.  Evenings are the hardest.  After going through the torture that is dinner and bedtime with an infant and [co-sleeping] toddler, there was nothing I wanted more than a glass of wine and a bag of anything crunchy for an hour of mind numbing television.  So – I had both.  By three days into my diet I felt like I was eating more because I knew I wasn’t supposed to – the thought of having to deprive myself only made my cravings stronger.  I texted my sister on the fourth day telling her I was out – her diet was making me eat like a pre-hibernating bear. 

I almost gave into the guilt. I almost started to bemoan how far I was from fitting into my pre-pregnancy jeans.  I almost let myself get sucked in by the images shown to me of pregnant women with six packs, models with their post-baby bodies displayed loud and proud and hashtagged with #fitmom and #noexcuses.  But, I have an excuse (not that I need one).  My excuse is that I’m tired and experiencing levels of exhaustion that make me celebrate getting through a day without falling asleep in an inappropriate place.  I used all my strength to show up to work this morning on only a few hours’ sleep, I let my frustration give way to patience when my 8-month old refused to feed and cried like a banshee in her car seat, I opted for reason over anger when my son colored on the couch and stayed up until ten pm.  Every ounce of willpower I have is accounted for.  There is very little of me left at the end of the day – and that puddle of a person deserves a piece of chocolate cake if she so desires.   Wine is my oasis, cake is my spa day, and cookies… are just cookies – they don’t need to be anything except the perfect little discs of joy that they are.  I plan to go back to exercising, eating healthy, and not chain-swallowing cookies one day, really I do.  But today I found a dirty diaper that made it through a load of clean laundry – so the diet can wait.