Nine Months On, Nine Months Off?

9.10.07: Time to face the music


Today's the day. Was the day. The day I was going to be back to my old self. The day I was going to step onto the scale and see the magic number I've been waiting to see for the past nine months: 145 pounds. My pre-pregnancy weight. In my mind, I would be twirling around in front of a mirror in a little red dress, like that woman in the Special K commercials, ecstatic about my new body—or, in this case, my old body.

Instead, I'm stuck. Stuck where I have been for the past five months. Stuck with eight stubborn pounds of pregnancy weight that are stuck to my stomach, stuck to my thighs, stuck to my rear end.

It doesn't sound like a lot. But, it feels like a lot. And, I'm guessing that it probably looks like a lot.

It's not like I've tried so hard to lose the weight, unless you count all the mental gymnastics I've done trying to calculate exactly how long it would take me to lose the 60 pounds I gained. Judging by my pregnancy with Julia, I figured I'd lose it all by the four-month mark. But when four months came and went, I figured six months would really be more realistic. And after that...well... isn't "nine months on, nine months off" the official guideline for losing pregnancy weight?

This past week, we celebrated Charlie's 9-month birthday. And suddenly, I feel like I'm out of time. Out of excuses. I'm surrounded by women with babies much younger than Charlie who've long since shed their pregnancy weight. I know one woman (who for her own personal safety shall remain nameless) who left the hospital in her pre-pregnancy jeans.

Sure, my pre-pregnancy jeans are fitting. There's just the slight problem of my still-protruding belly hanging out over them, still looking about four-months pregnant. But when I think about how far I've come—how far my belly has traveled these past nine months—I feel pretty good. I mean, in this photo, taken when I was 37 weeks pregnant with Charlie, my stomach was practically out in the stratosphere.

But last week, we went to a Labor Day pool party where I spent a good part of the afternoon sighing about a friend's very fit bikini-clad bod as she held her 10-week-old baby. And I realized: It's time. Time to stop thinking that time alone will do the trick. Time to stop moaning about the weight. Time to start lifting weights. Time to stop hoping for a miracle. Time to start hopping on the treadmill.

It's time to start making time to work toward the me I know I can be.

Join's Managing Editor Dana Rousmaniere each week as she chronicles life with a new baby.

Read the next entry: 9.17.07: Wondering When to Wean