A life-long weakling, one who struggled desperately to earn the ever-elusive elementary school brass ring—the Presidential Physical Fitness Award patch—I’m likely the last gal who’d ever describe herself as bodily “strong”. Well, until nearly ten years ago. Nothing quite like dual gestation, delivery—and now—day-to-day dealings with dynamic twins to spur a reassessment of my own personal “power,” and ultimately that of Mom-kind.
Sure, hauling around the ascending pregnancy weight, that’s something; but squelching the rotational urges to vomit, nap on the job, and consume nothing but the nutritionally-bereft-yet-oh-so-satisfying Krispy Kreme chocolate-iced doughnuts with sprinkles, now that takes fortitude.
While large-with-children, most of my girlfriends were good-naturedly heckling me about aspects of my pre-Mama existence that might merit modification after the babies’ arrival: my proficient (and prolific) use of the spicy word or two, my passionate relationship with all things caffeinated, my intimacy with intoxicants, an unabashed affinity for sleeping—-you get the picture.
Surprise, surprise. Little did they realize, unacquainted with maternity’s mandates, behavioral changes should not, would not, could not wait. Wee ones could hear in-utero, so we started reading some Seuss (as if that preceding sentence didn’t give it away). True confessions: we did watch The Sopranos with the volume turned down so they couldn’t hear. Java and vino were ill-advised, and oddly enough, inexplicably (or biologically) unappealing. As the weeks progressed, no matter how often I found myself (or forced myself) recumbent, I suffered from severe sleepus interruptus.
Of course once our duo arrived (and I’ll spare you the immodest self-congratulatory strength validation involved in that arrival process), there was little sleep to interrupt. Yet somehow, I felt stronger than ever. No, I couldn’t carry just one baby to the car in infant carriers; why not do double baby-bicep curls? Hauling the weighty Diaper Genie “link sausage” aftermath to the supercans with clockwork regularity/repetition? Child’s play! The contortions and stretches galore in the early days with twins rivaled any gymnastics workout of my youth.
Suddenly, with the unstructured exercise of motherhood—and the literal drain of breastfeeding two—I was ten pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight. No gloating here, however. The number on the scale might be pleasing, but the alteration of my shape disqualifies me from auditioning for the Victoria’s Secret catalog. My breasts and booty reside in a new latitude; but my perspective is spot-on. Free your mind, and your hips will follow….or at least your perception of them. Truth: As a mother, my body feels better, stronger, faster, more loving, more capable, more invigorated than ever before.
Strength. Restraint. Empowerment. Motherhood.
Hear me—hear us—roar.
c. 2011
