Baby as Giant Sucking Sound

So what do I know about being a mother?

Nothing.

Absolutely nada.

But I can say this. I have watched my friends have children and then have a series of small nervous breakdowns subsequent to the birth, most of which are precipitated by myriad factors: lack of sleep, eating whatever whenever, lack of sleep, being a feeding trough for the little bean, no personal space, lack of sleep, existing on a diet of doritos and diet coke, lack of sleep...
The worst, though, are the ones who become exercise demons as soon as that incision on their bellies (most of my friends had cesereans) looks like it's actually going to stay together and not dump their lower intestine onto the jogging path in the middle of a run.

Why can't we just love our bodies? Especially post-partum, especially when we just huffed and sweated our way thorough nine months of no wine and hips that sometimes felt like someone had taken a match to the socket? Where's the prize? Certainly it can't be the giant sucking sound (commonly referred to as "the baby") that's eeking the life out of us. Certainly it's not the alien that makes alien-like sounds and can't sleep for more than three hours at a time lest the space ship leave for the home planet without it. Where's the love?

It is popularly said that one cannot truly love another until one loves oneself. So what happens with those women who hated themselves ( read: their bodies) before they got pregnant and then proceeded to watch their bodies become something that would have incited daily purging had they not been carrying a child? If one has to love oneself before truly loving another, what happens when a kid robs you of your perfect abs, your toned ass, your perky breasts? You tell me there isn't resentment. You tell me that there aren't mothers out there who, in the dark of night after days without sleep, catch glimpse of themselves in the mirror, naked, and think "I take it all back. I want my life back. I want my body back. I want this baby gone."

Mother's can't say any of it. If they do, they're bad mothers, or they're on the verge of taking their baby to the pier and dropping him into the sea. There's no patience for mothers in this culture. And, consequently, they don't have much patience for themselves. They need to be back in tip top shape--pre baby weight--in record time. Look at Catherine Zeta-Jones! Look at Kate Hudson! "You'd never know that she just had a baby." Grrrr. God forbid we should ever look like we just spent nine months with a parasitic-acting thing growing inside of us, altering our every move, changing our lives forever. Effortless is the name of the game. Effortless and without evidence that it took any energy at all. It's like: we were here, this is the product, and look, Ma, I'm the same person on the outside!

Trouble is, no matter what you look like, no matter if you can fit back into your wedding dress after baby #3, chances are that you still look in the mirror and hate what you see. Bulges where only you can see them. Lines where only you knew there was once smooth skin. We seek out the imperfection because we don't know what to do with acceptance of self. It's weak. And boring. And someone might find out that the packaging looks the same, but the contents are completely, totally fucked up, broken in transit and uninsured.