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My body did exactly what it needed to do to conceive and grow a beautiful baby.

Body Wars
by Lisa Baron

I have 10 more pounds to lose and I couldn’t be less enthused about giving my workouts that extra boost they so desperately need. I could so do without this soft and cushy extra bit of me that has made a very comfortable home around my belly and hips. So unless I really put up a fight, I don’t see it leaving anytime soon. And I’m too tired from playgroups and music class, and chasing around an excited new crawler to take on a food fight.

So, it is with the enthusiasm of a sinner on her way to confession that I begin getting dressed for my daily workouts. I start this process exactly 30 minutes before I leave the house – and not one second sooner. I slip each leg into an unflattering pair of black shiny stretchy pants. I then harness myself into to a jog bra the size of my house and pick out a tank top that is both large and hangs down low enough to conceal my backside. “You’ll feel so much better afterwards,” I quietly encourage myself. “It’s just about bathing suit season and you know you will want to take Micah into the pool and not embarrass yourself and your family in the process.”

I don’t even know why I care. Jimmy doesn’t care. And I’m not saying that in a “woe is me – my husband doesn’t pay attention to me” kind of way. I think he’s just happy that people have stopped asking when I’m due. This was a problem because I was five months post-partum; he didn’t care when everyone thought I was still pregnant. But he knew I cared, so it bothered him for me. He’s just glad that the weekly trips to Old Navy have slowed down. I’ve now been in a consistent size for the past few months. But I do care. And trust me the images of Nicole Ritchie, Christina Aguilera, Tori Spelling and Jennifer Garner who are photographed carrying their new little bundles of joy their size two hips straight from the maternity ward don’t help. And how about size-zero Katie Holmes? Suri’s mom crossing the finish line for the New York Marathon didn’t exactly make me feel like a million bucks.

The problem is simple: I care. I care that I can’t fit into 50 percent of my closet’s contents. I care that I dread getting dressed up for a girl’s night out or dinner with my husband. I care that I scan other women’s bodies wondering if the reason they are so svelte is because they haven’t had kids yet, or because they are wearing Spanx. I think what bothers me the most about caring so much is that I care so much. And even with all this caring going on, I still dread going for that workout.

Off I go – but not before giving my main-squeeze Micah a big fat kiss. I grab my keys and gym bag and I’m off. I try and psych myself up the entire car ride over. Once inside the gym, I am actually okay. I listen to the trainer, and to make sure I am doing the exercises correctly, I check my form against the others in my class. And as the bad ‘80s music being piped in through a satellite radio station begins to fill my head, I take another look at my entire torso. I look at the sturdiness of my legs as they bend and straighten. I look at my arms as they hoist weight high above my head. Finally and reluctantly, I look at the round shape of my belly and full hips – and I am actually not mad at my body anymore. I am grateful.

My body did exactly what it needed to do to conceive and grow a beautiful baby. From the first three months of hormonal changes to the wonder of the second trimester where my body graciously accommodated another growing being. Then the third trimester when mentally I was done but physically, my body continued to compensate nurture and sustain what would become the true joy in our lives. In fact, my body made such a nice home for little Micah that he refused to come out – we had to go in after him – the little dude was plucked out feet first.

So, I’ve decided to end the cold war with my physique. I finished my workout, drank a gallon of water and then returned to my car. I anxiously drove home to scoop up my dimpled little boy to admire my body’s good job. Of course on the way home I caught the image of Willy’s Mexican Grill to the left. Oh, how I love cheese dip – and since I had just ended the war… But I am still on a mission to get back into those delicious black skinny jeans I used to wear (with a pair of ruby red stilettos of course) and it wouldn’t be so bad to look decent in a bathing suit again – I mean after all, it is probably about time to talk my husband into baby number two.