‘If you just lie back here and take a deep breath’ the midwife said pointing to the clapped out settee and dropping heavily on to one knee ‘I will check your uterus and your stitches again.’
With her dropping on to one knee, I had almost expected something a little more romantic and a little less mortifying to come out of her mouth but alas, at six weeks past my delivery date, this was not the instruction I had been hoping for.
‘Do you really have to?’ I asked with a heavy sigh before climbing on to my sofa. ‘Surely I don’t need to be checked again? There is just something so weird about you doing this procedure while I am lying on my own couch, in my own living room, with the neighbourhood kids cavorting outside and The Irish One lurking in the kitchen.’
‘I know’ She replied with a sigh, having heard this every week at the same time for the last 5 weeks, ‘but this is the last time today Lexy, so just lie back and think of England ok? I’ll be done in a Jiffy.’
‘Right’ I sighed dramatically while lying back and dropping my kecks. ‘Oh the magic of pregnancy and childbirth. It just keeps on giving.’
While I rest my head back and attempt to stop Doodle jumping up on to my chest and grabbing five minutes of much needed, abandoned and forgotten ‘hey i’m your son too, so I will pin you down with doggy paws and lick your face whether you like it or not’ mammy and poodle time, Jane the unhelpful midwife plunges her hands in to the depths of my stomach.
She is elbow deep in flab and stretch marks when she looks up triumphantly and exclaims ‘Well you will be happy to know your uterus has now retreated fully back to where it should be, and your stitches are healing nicely.’ She pulls off her plastic gloves and begins to stand up, clutching her back for dramatic affect. (Yes my sofa is too low, I get it! It is not my fault that the ‘wooden block feet’ were mistaken for ‘random bits of wood’ and thrown out during operation ‘sort out nursery.’ Move on! Have some phsyio!)
Meanwhile back on the sofa of doom, I gasp, splutter and stutter, ‘what do you mean my uterus has gone back in?’ I manage to spit out while pulling my knickers up and avoiding eye contact with Doodle. ‘It can’t have, it just can’t have. If it has, then what is all this?’ I cry, grabbing fistfuls of bump. ‘If my uterus has retreated then why do I still have a bump??’ I was horrified.
‘That my dear,’ says helpful Jane full of glee ‘is fat.’
And with that she packs up her assassin case of midwifery tools and heads towards the door. ‘Nothing a bit of exercise won’t solve, and now it has been six weeks you are good to go. Good luck.’ She calls out slamming the door behind her while I stand cursing the day Kfc, Pizza hut, MacDonald’s, Milkshakes, Burgers, Ice cream, chocolate and Square crisps had been invented and consequently eaten, continuously over 10 months (not 9!) of sheer gluttony.
‘But It was…’ I pondered to the wall forlornly, imagining a camera zooming in for a teary close up… ‘But it was meant to drop off?’
Looking 8 months pregnant six weeks post delivery is not something I enjoyed. Looking like a beer swelling lager lout with a belly that swayed when I rocked the baby was not something I found even remotely attractive on myself, and as if to add injury to insult for some ungodly reason that only mother nature can answer (sick bitch) I began to grow thick curly black hairs on it too.
Er hello? Why don’t you kick me while I’m down cowbag!
It isn’t like I was thin before. But you have to understand. I was told it would go. So being left with an overhang the size of Sicily flapping about my nethers, did not leave me in a good mood. (Obviously since then I have grown to love my belly, and have often been heard pronouncing ‘I paid for this’ while rubbing it fondly. But back then? I was not happy. Not happy one bit. Not happy one bit with a cherry on top. And a cream cake underneath…)
Why oh why couldn’t I have been one of those women you see swanning about the place with the perfect, and dare I say it? Sexy little bump, protruding from the front of their jeans? Why couldn’t I have been an example of the perfect weight gain? Why couldn’t I have only put 8 pounds on, had no morning sickness and been described as ‘suiting pregnancy’ on a day to day basis?
Because The Irish one introduced me to Pasta sandwiches as a cure for Nausea, that’s why.
For 10 months (not 9!) I was made entirely of Carbohydrates, little arms and legs booting me in the flute and Dolmio tomato sauce. So much so, that I started to look like the woman from the cartoon advert. At one point I even drew a mole on my face and spoke with an Italian accent for the entire evening. ‘You wanta some-a pasta ravioli Irish one-a? It’s a nicer place-a to stuffa your face-a!’ (He soon tired of this and introduced me to Magnums. I never spoke again. My mouth was always full of ice cream and chocolatey goodness.)
But oh! Had I been a thin and ‘healthy’ pregnant woman instead of a ‘whooooaaaa huge bump!’ and ‘wow you’re blooming!’ heavily set baby maker, I could have been a thin new mummy! You know the ones I mean.
You see them camping out around the baby aisle in Asda and pushing maxi-cosi’s on massive combine harvester type trolleys. They are so tiny, the trolley engulfs them. They are so thin and perfect looking you expect to see a 12 year old crammed in to the tiny maxi cosi, all legs and hairy armpits, humphing and moaning about how he is ‘not a child anymore muuuuummmm’, but are shocked and physically curled in irritation to notice the baby is only an hour and fifteen minutes old.
‘Yes…’ They shout merrily while doing star jumps and breast feeding concurrently ‘I exercised all the way through! Ate only a yoghurt and a donut daily and managed to push him out an hour ago while doing a sit up! Isn’t he wonderful?’
You plod away towards the cakes wondering where it all went wrong, but comforted by the fact your uterus hasn’t retreated yet so you have an excuse.
‘My uterus hasn’t gone in yet’ I would explain between mouthfuls of chocolate sponge ‘when it does, ill be thin again, like magic.’
Then Jane visits. The bitch.
Exercise? My son is only 6 weeks old for god’s sake! Is it morning? What is my name again? When was his last bottle? What? I’m feeding him now? Right ok, who are you? You are the father? Great! Can I go to bed? I can’t? I have to rub ice cold salt and vinegar on my nipples and then stick nails in them? Right ok. What day is it? Was that the doorbell? Did the visitors just leave or have they not been yet? Who the hell were they? Why am I still so fat? Where are my feet? I can’t see them! Has he had a bottle yet? Do you know what my name is? Where is the toilet paper? Go out in public? Are you on glue? I’m never leaving the house again. Where are the nappies? Do we have any wipes? Has he pood again? Have you burped him? Was that a burp? Please god say that was a burp, it sounded like a burp! Why has he been sick? Is it colic? Is that the doorbell? Who was that? I have no idea why these people are visiting! I have spoken to them once in my entire life! Do you want a cup of tea? Make it yourself I am steriliising bottles. What day is it? Has he had a bottle recently? Why has he been sick again? Is that poo I can smell? Was that a burp? PLEASE tell me that was a burp. Exercise?????
You have GOT TO be joking.
The point I am trying to make is; there is no way I was ready to exercise at six weeks post delivery. I am barely ready now. I think the whole six weeks and go, go, go! Thing is just too much pressure and not enough support on these poor women that pregnancy spits out.
Obviously there are those women who are the exception, those women who did not struggle in the weeks immediately after the baby was born, and those who hardly put any weight on, and all joking aside, I hate you. No really, I do. (Not really…. not much, anyway… I am just jealous… I really am…)
I wasn’t the perfect pregnant woman. I didn’t jump back on the cross trainer 6 minutes after he was born and I put on a hell of a lot of weight. Does the perfect pregnant woman exist? Next time (*Macaulay Culkin home alone face* Yes, next time… ) I will try harder to eat less lard and bend over more. That should help me maintain a size 800.
I was 15 stone 7 when he was born. I totally expected him to be about 3 stone goddamn it! I was like ‘6 pound what?????’ When the midwife told me his weight while holding him like you would a piece offering to the gods ‘6 fooking pounds??? Is that all???’
Right now, I am 11 Stone 7 (Give or take a few stone) and I still have a belly that still swings when I rock a 1 year old to sleep and my boobs are heading south for the winter.
I am JUST about to start some exercise as I am JUST about starting to feel normal again. (Your opinion may differ.)
15 MONTHS POST DELIVERY.
It was clearly a man who came out with the whole; ‘all women will feel normal 42 days post tearing their arse out while giving birth! I, mister Man of Man street, Man land, came to this number by multiplying the number of times I think about sex on a daily basis, by the number of brain cells I still have remaining!’
Six weeks my arse!! (She says, grabbing it and remembering the pain.)
I have bought a stepper from Tesco and some weight watchers meals from Asda. (I am hedging my bets.) I am not joining fat club or slimming world or even a Gym. Any pressure and I will run a mile (or not as the case may be.) I am literally going to do a bit of stepping here and there, and less chewing and swallowing there and here.
My goal is realistic.
Realistically by this time next year I fully intend on being the thinnest woman on the planet. Or at least a happy size 12 with thighs that make you go oooo! (MC Hammers lesser known track.)
When that time comes, I will then borrow a new-born baby and parade around town, pushing my Maxi Cosi while showing off my ‘post preggo body’ by wearing a full on leotard and imitating the dance to all the single ladies, by Beyonce . (FYI – When I say borrow a new born, I mean off a friend. I don’t mean from a hospital in a creepy way!) I will also sit my newborn on my rock hard abs while doing sit up’s in the banana aisle. (I will also find a supermarket which has a whole aisle dedicated to banana’s just so this post is not a lie.)
What? Don’t look at me like that!!
If you can’t beat them you may as well join them!!
Kind of. And just for once I want to be seen as an upbeat new mother!! Instead of the heavy footed, slow walking, limping Eeyore type mother I was!
Wish me luck.
And will one of you, hurry up and get preggo so I can borrow your baby next year?… and remember…
Just cos your uterus is growing, doesn’t mean you have to!!
It’s ok. You can slap me. I slapped my Aunty Kathleen when she said it to me.
And then went and made a pasta butty.
The Irish one was right (tell him i said that and die!)They are the perfect cure for nausea.
My thunder thighs curse him.
Operation #SkinnyBint Has commenced. Feel free to join me.
Or laugh at me from the sofa while I resemble Pat Butcher on a thigh master.
Your choice. My flab. One Goal.