A Little Bit Fat
We’d been waiting in the cramped exam room for what seemed like forever. It was nap time, and the baby was getting fussy and squirmy. We had been at the children’s hospital for hours by then, and he’d already had an echocardiogram and ECG. I was holding him, swaying back and forth, when the cardiologist breezed in, followed by two nurses. He’d met us once before, but maybe he didn’t remember.
“So this is Liam?” he exclaimed. “And I see we have another one on the way!”
I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. Everything slowed down for a minute. I felt my cheeks get hot as I looked down at my belly. I was wearing a black wrap dress designed for nursing, with a long cardigan and Converse sneakers. I stood up straighter and quickly blurted out, “Uh, nope. I guess I’m just a little bit fat.”
The nurse that we’ve known since the NICU looked absolutely mortified. The doctor stammered, “Oh, I’m sorry.” I felt sorry for him.
We continued on as if nothing had happened. I could still feel my cheeks burning hot and the sting of tears behind my eyes. He started talking about heart rate and rhythm. I had to remind myself, “This isn’t about you. Get it together. Don’t cry. Listen.” So I listened. And I didn’t cry. And I wish I could say I didn’t care.
But I did. And instead of blurting out, “I’m just a little bit fat” to this doctor I wished I could explain. I wished I could tell him:
Um, I just had a baby nine months ago.
I was on steroids for half a year. They caused stretch marks and gestational diabetes and all sorts of other side effects, like weight gain.
I was breastfeeding and chasing two kids around all day and, despite what they say, my weight wasn’t budging.
I’ve worked hard to get over some crappy disordered eating stuff, like restricting and bingeing.
I’ve also worked to accept and appreciate my body, and right now I’m having a bit of a hard time with that.
Not only did my body attack my baby’s heart, it attacked my thyroid. It no longer functions. So my metabolism is out of whack.
Did I mention that I had a baby less than a year ago?
It shouldn’t matter, and it’s nobody’s business, but sometimes I want to explain. Tell people that I’m not lazy. That I am frequently on the move. That I try to listen to my body’s hunger and fullness cues. That I’m not pregnant. And that it’s none of their freaking business, anyway.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked if I was pregnant when I wasn’t. Jon and I trekked across Europe before kids, and I still remember this vividly. We were standing on a very packed train in Brussels with our luggage piled around us. A well-meaning lady at the opposite end of the train, ready to give up her seat, shouted across all of the other passengers, “ARE YOU PREGNANT?”
Everyone looked.
I shouted back, “NO.”
Everyone looked down.
It was super embarrassing in the moment. But recalling it now, it is pretty funny.
Another time while student teaching, a cute little girl in Grade One asked, “Are you having a baby? My mom said you’re having a baby.” When I replied that I wasn’t, she responded, “If you’re not having a baby, why does your belly go like this?” and gestured outward with both hands. Again, looking back it is funny.
Maybe I just have one of those bellies.
Little children aside, can we stop assuming or asking women if they’re pregnant? While we’re at it, could we try to stop judging post-partum women’s bodies? How about just stopping judging and commenting on people’s bodies in general? We don’t know other people’s stories. And it’s no one’s place to judge. And no one should have to explain or excuse their body. Even if, like mine, it’s just a little bit fat.
