The weight of it all

This is the longest stretch of time I have not been pregnant in three years.

Angus is almost eight months old, and when Hope was "that old" he had already taken up residency inside my belly. He was in fact well on his way to graduating to the second trimester. Things certainly did happen for me quickly, and for that I will be forever grateful.

After I had Hope, the horrid irony was that it never looked like I had a baby. I always worried how I would shift the pregnancy weight before she died inside of me and whether breastfeeding would help that process along. But she was gone, the baby weight was gone and there was nary a stretch mark to be seen. I probably should have got my tattoo on my forehead just so it was obvious to everyone I met that she even existed.

Angus was a big boy. Almost nine pounds at just 38 weeks. And his pregnancy was hard on my body. I didn't have to do anything - like chase a toddler around or work - but it still took it's toll. Second time around, I grew larger, rounder, thicker. And I ate my way through my grief to survive. And pregnancy is always an excuse to eat whatever the hell you bloody well like. So eat I did.

Then he arrived! Alive! And the milk came in! And he got to drink it! And still he does to this very day (and a few times a night, too!) Double exclamation point!!

Yet I'm 15kg heavier than I was when I first got pregnant with Hope. I had a baby I got to keep, and looking at me there is certainly no mistaking that. Is it fair to still call myself post-partum as we edge towards a first birthday?

Two pregnancies in two years. First anniversaries. Summer. Second anniversaries. Winter. Grief. Utter exhaustion. Complete lack of motivation. Desperate craving for cake, cake and more cake to keep the body ticking over as it makes milk, milk and more milk. I feel like I have the longest list of excuses around as to why it is I look like this, and can't be arsed doing anything about it.

I'm not happy with the way I look, or my body. Yet this time around, with Angus, it did exactly what it was supposed to do. I might be tired and unkempt most days, but that milky-sweaty-earthy-motherly smell I give off does make me swell with pride. I grew this magnificent child. He is the picture of health, despite seeming to be awake 23 hours out of 24 some days. Yet it doesn't take much to be sucked back to August 2008 when I think of my pathetic, weak, useless body who let the most precious thing in our universe get away from me. Stupid, wretched, failure of a body. I was so disgusted in myself that it happened. That she died. That I became that woman with a stillborn child. And most days, I still am.

I used to be fit. I used to be able to walk to the shops without raising a sweat or losing my breath. Sometimes, in some outfits, I even thought I looked good. Now, I think I look revolting most days, despite the cuddly lump of a boy slung on either one of my ever substantial child-bearing hips.

I want to do something about it. I think. I want to make a change. But every time I think about trying to do any form of strenuous exercise that gets the heart rate going, I think of a million and one reasons to stay inside. Napping with Angus on the couch being about the main one at this point in time. And each night I tell myself this will be the night I wont eat a row of dark chocolate after dinner, there I am polishing off two.

Crazy as it might sound, but we want to do this all over again. Have another baby, that is. Not right now, not even tomorrow and probably not even this year. But I don't want my body to be in the shape it is right now before we even contemplate that.

I was so proud of my body when it was growing Hope. It did a wonderful job for 40 and a bit weeks until what would have been it's greatest achievement dissolved in a puddle right before my very eyes.

And despite having Angus here, I don't know how I will ever feel that true sort of pride again. It has done so well on the one hand and so badly on the other. I guess with the ledger sitting at 50/50 at the moment, tipping it more in the favour of pregnancy and birth success might make things a bit easier.

I say might. But I doubt it. Who am I kidding, really? There will always be that one who didn't make it. No matter how many more live children my fat and tired body goes on to produce.