A hate-hate situation

I have never 'loved my body', as I suppose I am meant to do. Never. Maybe it started with all those years of ballet class, where I learnt to feel self-conscious and to be self-critical. I can still remember one of my ballet teachers telling us that, one day, our bellies would be concave. For a while, I was skinny enough (really - it's hard to believe now, but this was the case once-upon-a-time) that my ribs were visible, but I never had that concave belly. Instead, I was damned to have the shape that runs through my maternal line. Anyway, nothing like public displays of spandex and tulle to cultivate a solid hatred of one's excessively flawed body.

During pregnancy, I never once felt beautiful. I quickly built up 'maternal fat stores' that made me feel like a hippopotamus, and couldn't find many mat clothes that I actually liked. I didn't feel comfortable in either my skin or my wardrobe. My hair was supposed to be lush, but courtesy of a brain fart that caused me to have it cut short (for me), every day was a bad hair day. My feet were huge. I had belly envy.

Although I've heard it said that all pregnant women glow and are beautiful, I was the exception to prove the rule. I definitely wasn't a cute pregnant woman. In no way would I have qualified as attractive.

Since Jakob was born, my body has found new ways to let me down. The swelling, for one thing. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, it did, and much much worse than I could have even imagined. And the sweats, too. And the breastfeeding failures. I still don't fit into my favourite jeans (and I think I never will) and my Blundstones give me sore toes as well as blood blisters on my heels.

Long story short: pregancy and post-partum have done nothing to make me like my body. I endure it. Because I have to. My body constantly finds new ways to betray me. I'm stuck with it. It is not a happy relationship.