It's been 2 years, 1 month, and 26 days since Henry has entered the world. In those 2 years, 1 month and 26 days, my weight has bounced around more than at any other time in my life. When I was pregnant, I gained 30 pounds on recommendation of my doctor and was then the heaviest I'd ever been. I did not feel sexy while I was pregnant. I didn't feel like I was glowing. I wasn't one of those pregnant women that other women looked at and said "I hope I look that good when I'm pregnant". I had my good days. The ones where I looked at myself and thought that I looked kind of cute with my protruding belly button but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone and I was left crying on a heap in the floor of my walk in closet because I had nothing to wear and nothing fit me and I was miserable. Brandon found me this way more than once and he always told me how beautiful he thought I looked. I never believed him.
And then 2 years, 1 month, and 26 days ago, Henry joined us and made us this family of three. It was just after this day in February of 2014 that I was determined that I would be back in my old clothes. I remember coming home from the hospital and I was able to put on a sweater that I used to wear. I felt triumphant. I thought that from there the weight would just melt off and in no time I'd be in all my old, favorite clothes. That thought is funny to me now.
Over the last 2 years, 1 month and 26 days I've struggled over and over with my weight. Aside from being pregnant, I'm still heavier than I've ever been. I still have stretch marks and my thighs jiggle and my stomach still carries a mom pouch. I don't like being in a bathing suit and I don't like my husband seeing me change. I have a couple pairs of pants that I can fit in from my before-Henry life. But those ones that had a tag that said 4? Those have now been placed into a garbage bag and donated to someone who can use them. And when I put them into that white plastic, I surprisingly didn't feel disappointed in myself. I thought about all my body had been through, and I thought about the amazing human that my body created. And I looked down at a new pair of pants that had a tag that said 8 and I thought "who cares?" My husband certainly doesn't. My son certainly doesn't. That number on the inside of my pants doesn't determine how my day will go. It doesn't determine my success in life. And as long as I don't let it, it doesn't determine my happiness in life.
So now 2 years, 1 month and 26 days after having my son, I'm a size 8. I used to be a size 4 or a size 6, and now I'm a size 8. I have hips where I didn't used to. My curves are curvier. And even though the tag now says a bigger size, I'm still the same person- maybe even a bit happier. And it has nothing to do with the size on a tag.