Cushioned and cocooned

I’m officially 21 weeks pregnant, and for me, this also coincides with a remarkable question that overwhelms me.

“Whose body is this? And what the heck is it doing?”

No doubt, this is my body. These are my freckles, those are my scars (because over 15 years of ballet taught me grace on stage only! I think I may be unlike many women. As I drifted from my teens into my twenties, I stopped changing outfits before leaving the house. I pause for, at most, 5 seconds, throw something on, and go. (In my defense, it’s normally a dress, so I don’t have to worry about coordination. I like dresses for that reason and they generally don’t sit on your waist, which I abhor!) It’s an odd quirk from my recovery from an ED.

But now that my body is growing (and growing…and growing…), it’s harder to find things that fit. Or if they do fit, I know have to look in the mirror to see how the clothes look on my body. Again, this is something I stopped doing, because I know I cannot see myself in a realistic light. That’s right: I deal with it by not trying, because I HAVE tried, and it’s not going anywhere. Old habits don’t die hard. Some just don’t die. And this is how I deal with it.
EXCEPT. Except for times, like now. I have no choice. I should see if the shirt is covering my belly, so a quick glance in the mirror and…

“OH MY GOD! ARE THOSE MY THIGHS?!”

I don’t say this out loud. I don’t even blink. I just look into the mirror and the self-hate swirls and spirals trails of ugliness in my mind.

I am not one of those pregnant women who put on just that bump. Both my pregnancies, I started off on the underweight side; so yes, some extra weight gain is to be expected. At my last appointment with my midwife, I have gained a total of 27-28 lbs. That puts me at a whopping 131, and truth be told, that’s probably what I should normally weigh, non-pregnant (except my bone structure is so tiny, I find it hard to believe. 115-120 is far more believable on my frame and fidgeting level.)

Last night, A was playing with his cell phone and took some pictures of me. He thought they came out great. I looked at them and just nodded and smiled.
“I am a cushion of my former self.” I thought. And indeed, that is exactly what’s happening to me. I am cushioning a new life form, and so…my body is mine, but it’s doing things that I’m not actively giving it permission to do. Okay, so I generally don’t instruct my bile ducts to do their thing, or ask my pancreas for a little more insulin because eating three handfuls of jelly beans seemed like a great idea.

(Side note: It is always a good idea to add more jelly beans to your day. Always.)

However, my body is suddenly doing a hell of a lot more without my active participation, and it’s very strange. I live in you, and I don’t know what the hell is going on here?!

NB: Perhaps you, clever friend, can already see why I love philosophy so much. For Descartes’ sake, I survived a mind-body dualist-clusterfuck-disease.

I trust my body. I trust that the baby is growing healthy and bigger by the day. I don’t trust my mind, though—that’s what mess up things (and why this blog exists—so I don’t, I hope, mess up everything!).

My face is fuller. All of me is fuller. It’s like I’m cocooned in myself, and it’s only going to grow as time passes.

Cocooned is a nicer word. It has a softer tone to it. A more gentle, nurturing tone. Even if I say, “I’m cocooned in fat,” it still has a more soothing tone to it.

I’ll have to try and remember that word.