At 5'7" I am one of the shortest on both sides of the family. My father's side is tall and think, beautiful olive skin, and very athletic. That is my sister. She could eat anything and never gain a pound. Flawless skin - she never dealt with the adolescent frustration of acne. She attracted attention wherever she went and was known in our family as the skinny one.
If you ask my Sister how she sees herself, she'd describe herself as tall, gangly, flat chested, large hipped and plain.
I struggled with my weight. I tended to become quite chubby and then grow a few inches. I was an awkward dancer and quite clutzy. Not at all graceful. I had horrible acne as a teen and still struggle with it. I tend to look more like my mother's side of the family. Paler skin, dull brown hair.
In 4th grade I needed a bra. I got one in 5th grade. I was not one of those children whose parents bought them a bra because their friends had one, or the child wanted one for middle school gym class. I needed one.
My mother is quite large chested, as is most of her side of the family. My father would make comments sometime. Toilet made comments ALL the time. He would comment about strangers, my mother, playboy models, everyone. He called them boobies, titties and other blech names. I can't stand any name for them now
I remember reading that book by Judy Blue - Are you there God, it's me, Margaret. Margaret is desperate to get her period and increase her bra size. She and her friends begin doing this exercise, "I must, I must, increase my bust." I was the opposite. I prayed nightly never to get as large as my mother. I did not want to look like her.
Developing early garnered me a lot of attention, and not the kind I wanted. I dressed in baggy clothes most of middle school. After the abuse it got worse. I wore long pants and sweaters in the summer, telling everyone I got cold easy. After hearing my mother's comment that a recent diet had dropped her bra size a bit, I crash-dieted.
In high school I alternated between enjoying the attention I received from the opposite sex and despising it. I would throw sweat shirts over my outfits in the house to avoid the leering, lecherous stares.
In college, through candid conversations with other friends, I learned that my A cup friends were jealous of my C cup chest that I so despised. I would have given anything to trade. With poor eating habits, college diets and over-exercise, I was quite thin. Too poor to buy many "going out" clothes, I borrowed from hall mates and my wardrobe changed. I still stuck to mostly black colored items, but they began to fit a bit better. I began buying and wearing smaller sizes.
My husband appreciated my figure. He made comments, but was respectful about them (most of the time!). For our wedding, I dieted again and got so thin my dress had to be taken in another time. My mother told me I was getting too thin, but I loved it.
Between trying to be Betty Homemaker and fix those southern, greasy meals my new husband loved, and the eat-on-the-run lifestyle we lived that last year of law school and first few years of work, I gained much weight. I started weight watchers after I realized I was up 4 sizes of clothing. It was a struggle. Hitting age 25 seemed to be a barrier to weight loss and I had to really work at it. In May 2004 I hit my goal, right before we left for vacation to the beach.
I look at pictures of myself in a bathing suit now, and am astonished at how thin I was. Too thin really. But I thought I looked good. We came back from the beach to discover we were pregnant with our first child. I stopped dieting immediately and switched from my regular exercise routine to a prenatal routine. I gained quite a bit of weight back rapidly. My poor body didn't know what to do as it switched from diet mode to eat-what-you-want mode. I wondered how I would deal with the body changes, but surprisingly I enjoyed them. I loved watching my body grow and develop and knowing that it was for a good cause. For a short time, I was comfortable with my body. It was reacting for a purpose and good reason and I was okay with the changes.
I always knew I wanted to breastfeed. I took all the classes and read all the books. Finally these "things" I despised would be useful and good for something besides lustful stares. I didn't really grow in bra size until right before delivery, and then everything else had swelled up so much, it didn't matter. I was pregnant through the winter and most of my clothes were maternity sweaters or long sleeve shirts.
My milk came in rapidly and my Daughter took to nursing pretty well. I remember walking down the hallway to take a bath a few short days after my daughter was born. My husband caught a glimpse of me and I watched as his jaw literally dropped. I was crying from the soreness of these huge watermelons that had sprouted overnight. He was astonished and asked if they'd "go down." They did, thank goodness. However, those were a long two days filled with tears as I was convinced I had become my mother.
I did enjoy nursing after that. My chest had a purpose. It nourished my daughter for 26 months and comforted her like nothing else could. I had wondered how I would deal with nursing - whether I'd be okay with it or not. But I was.
After my Daughter was born, I again dieted. My weight again went up and down. I got back down to a goal I convinced myself to live with. I realized I would probably never be as low of a weight as I had in my 20s and that it probably was not healthy anyway. I was at my goal weight when we started trying for Baby #2. Soon thereafter is when I began dealing with these abuse-issues. Between stress and medication trials and just poor health habits, my weight shot up again.
When I got pregnant this time, I was far above my goal weight. When I sat down in the doctor's office for the first prenatal visit, the nurse was being pretty pointed about how tall I was and what my weight was prior to pregnancy. I gave her a general answer, but she wanted to tie me down within 1 pound and 1/2 inch. Turns out that I was on the borderline of being in the next BMI category. I was "officially" overweight and I am restricted on what I am supposed to gain with this pregnancy. That was extremely difficult news for me to hear. It ate me up inside for many days thereafter.
Morning sickness made eating almost an impossibility. In some ways it was a blessing because I didn't have to worry about overeating. When I had gained zero weight at the first visit, and zero at another visit, I was happy about it. The midwife cautioned me that I might gain in fits and spurts. I did put on 4 pounds after the visit to my sister (all that ice cream). When I began to be able to eat again, I started back exercising. It's been a real struggle not to lapse into either the not eating or the overeating category.
My biggest weight gain this pregnancy has been my chest. I didn't gain a size at all with my Daughter until right there at the end. This time I noticed my bras were tight before I even knew I was pregnant. I'm up two complete sizes already and probably should be up another, but I refuse to admit it. This time I'm pregnant in the warmer weather. I've borrowed some maternity clothes. I don't know why designers think every woman wants to show off cleavage. Every shirt is low cut, with a plunging neckline. I've safety pinned nearly every shirt I have. I hate it. None of the button-up blouses fit. The person who lent me clothes relished her developing chest and so much of her wardrobe consists of tank tops and low cut shirts. I put one on today to wear around the house and my husband made a lewd comment.
I hate this. I hate looking in the mirror. I hate the stares - especially from strange men. I hate the self-consciousness I feel every time I lean or bend over, afraid everyone will see down my shirt. I hate the strain my back and neck are feeling. I hate the increased attention I am receiving from my husband who can't help but comment that he is enjoying my growing "body." I'm terrified these "Things" will continue to grow and will not go back down. I want to cut them off. The fact that in this pregnancy they are itchy and overly sensitve is driving me crazy. Talk about triggering - and no possible way to escape it.
I have also received comments over my life about my legs. I have long legs. I've been told they are shapely. When I really started struggling with SI, I cut my legs. (see my 'Why the Where' post). It ended my ability to wear short shorts or skirts without questions or odd looks. In a strange way, I like my legs better now with the scars. They are mine now - not someone else's object of lust.
My pregnant developing body is not so much a source of amazement and wonder this time around. It's causing me turmoil and stress. I love the kicks and movements I am feeling. But I hate the sight of myself in the mirror. I'm mostly okay with comments about my pregnant belly. I'm not at all okay with comments about my chest or allusions thereto. I'm struggling a lot with not giving in to SI again.
My anxiety over this is up and I am missing my medication here lately. On the positive front, all this deep breathing and relaxation is sure to come in handy during labor.
