The pursuit of pregnancy perfection – how obsessing about weight can make a girl go cray cray

The news has been abuzz with the prevalence of pregorexia after a UK study surveyed more than 700 pregnant women and found that a quarter were highly concerned about their weight and shape. It got me thinking about my own battles with body image and how much energy I wasted in the pursuit of pregnancy perfection.

The day I got married I was a size 8. I’d spent the months leading up to our wedding eating lettuce, dry chicken and protein bars that tasted like paper mache. I’d also chained myself to a treadmill every day and pec-decked till my breasts resembled stunned mandarins. I kept telling myself that nobody gasps at a fat bride and that if I couldn’t be picture perfect on my wedding day I would have failed at life. Dinner invitations sent me into a flat panic, I’d check out restaurant menus online to plan out the evening –  if I ordered the 250g steak, I could eat half of it, ask for salad on the side with no dressing and no fries. Then I could fill my champagne glass with sparkling water and pretend it was alcohol. Yes, I was a barrel of laughs in the lead up to the big day, as I struggled to look nothing like the curvy girl my husband had fallen in love with.

WeddingdayOn my wedding day after a three months of no carbs

I’ve always been a complete basket case when it comes to my weight. Growing up as the chubby daughter of a skinny dance teacher will do that to you. While my older sister always managed to stay slim, I would put on a kilo every time I glanced at a marshmallow. Ever since I went on my first soup diet at the age of 11, photos of me have been a series of before and after pictures as my desire to be thinner has controlled every event and every day of my life. There is no middle ground with me, I either starve myself or eat everything in sight. When I’m in starvation mode, I’m constantly panicking that I’m going to fall off the wagon and when I’m in hungry hippo mode I feel nauseatingly guilty 24/7. Am I obese? Hell to the no. If I let my body settle into its natural state, I’m a size 12, which in many people’s eyes is perfect.

When my husband and I started trying for a baby, we’d just returned from our dream holiday in Europe. Six weeks of eating gnocchi and drinking pinot had puffed out my thighs and when I looked in the mirror I saw a bowling ball of a face on top of a hessian bag of flab. Each month the negative pregnancy result brought tears of disappointment, but also a sense of relief – I’d think, I have four more weeks to lose weight before I’m not allowed to anymore!  But the next month I weighed the same as the month before and I hated myself for not being disciplined enough to break up with carbs and hook up with celery, because if I could be super skinny when I fell pregnant, I wouldn’t be too fat at the end. I would diet for four days then find myself snorkeled up with a chocolate wafer and diving headfirst into a bowl of macadamia and caramel ice-cream. Without a white dress egging me on, I had false start after false start in the pursuit of pre-pregnancy perfection.

IMG_4781Enjoying the sunset (and cocktails) in Europe

Eight months and no dropped kilos later, I fell pregnant. My husband and I were ecstatic but my elation was tainted with the anger I felt for not losing the junk in my trunk. I grilled my obstetrician on how many kilos he expected me to put on. He told me I was a perfectly healthy weight and should put on between 11 and 16 kilos but everyone is different he said, so don’t worry if you gain more than that. I was angry with him for not being harder on me, so I went home and put together an Excel spreadsheet that mapped out the weeks of my pregnancy. I divided 11 kilos across the second and third trimester to try and set myself a limit of how many grams I should allow myself to put on each week. I wanted to be a hot mama with a perfect round bump, not a bloated tracksuit pants wearing slob.

After the first trimester, I’d already gained four kilos, so I recalculated the spreadsheet. Two weeks later, I’d gained another two kilos, I recalculated again. Operation pregnancy perfection was not going to plan.

I Googled ‘pregnancy diet’ and found the details of a dietician who could stop me falling down the rapid gain rabbit hole. She gave me a list of foods to eat and foods to avoid but no strict eating plan. I walked away furious. Where were my super strict parameters? How was I going to regain control? The pressure sent me straight to the pantry. It didn’t help that my husband would come home with treats, “I got my gorgeous wife a Freddo frog” he’d say. I’d scream at him, eat the frog and then collapse into a bawling, hormonal mess.

At prenatal aqua aerobics, I’d ask each girl how far along she was then mentally measure my belly size against each of theirs. Every week while paddling and straddling a pool noodle, I would diagnose myself as gargantuan. I only care about these things because I want to have a healthy pregnancy and a healthy bub I told myself. But I knew it was more than that, it was that chubby 11-year-old chaffing in her Mickey Mouse shorts and miserably eating her fifth cup of soup who was screwing with my head.

Blog-Bodyimage2 On honeymoon in Bali and three days before I had Moo (it took 40 deleted photos before I approved this one)

By the time I reached the final weeks of my pregnancy I had gained 24 kilos. My Mum came out from South Africa to help me prepare for the bub but her camera stayed in her handbag as I refused to let her take any photos of me looking like a whale. My Mum kept telling me I looked gorgeous and was “all belly” but I knew she was just being kind.  I put the Excel spreadsheet in the trash folder, slid the scale under the bathroom cupboard and opened a pack of Tim Tams. I was too far gone I told myself, I’d just have to be super strict once bubba was born. If Beyonce could rock sequined hot pants weeks after giving birth, it couldn’t be that hard.

On 21 January our gorgeous baby boy was born. He was a healthy 3.86kgs and perfect in every way. When we got home from hospital, I Ajaxed the dust off the scales and was thrilled to discover that I’d lost 13kgs since my last weigh in. Out came the Excel spreadsheet and according to my calculations I’d be thin again by June.

I’d love to say that becoming a mother has made me view my body with awe and wonder, but that’s not 100% true. I am still fighting with my body and I’m tired. It’s now September and I’ve just fallen off post-pregnancy wagon number six. I hate that despite being completely obsessed with my weight, I can’t get a handle on it. I hate that the more I stress about it, the more likely I am to eat crap. I hate that I can’t occasionally eat a burger without feeling like shit. I hate how the number on the scales each morning has the power to make or break my day.

I know I need to stop. I know I need to be thankful and stop obsessing over a body that really isn’t all that bad. I’m going to try. Because I don’t want something so superficial to have so much power over me anymore. I want to tell that 11-year-old girl eating soup and dreaming of ice-cream that she is beautiful. Because she is. We all are.

From Prada to Poo: The joys of being a fat and unfashionable new mum

If you’d asked me 12 months ago to describe myself in ‘elevator talk’ I would’ve said, “I’m a successful communications manager working in the health sector. I love travelling the world, splurging on $260 face cream and pouring myself into a taxi after too many mojitos.” I would happily debate the merits of BB creams vs. foundations, squatted till my glutes screamed to fit into skinny jeans and knew all about my hairdresser’s unfaithful ex. Between my job, social life, studying for my Masters degree and performing in the odd amateur musical, I never sat down and got off on thrill of meeting deadlines and celebrating successes.

Fast forward 12 months, one baby and 17 kilos and my life would take a broken elevator with a tardy repairman to describe.

As a previously fashion conscious compulsive shopper, I’m currently sitting at my computer in a mismatched tracksuit covered in breast milk, saliva and a blob of something that after a quick ‘scratch and sniff’ test is identified as regurgitated pumpkin. I used to fit into a size 28 jeans, now that’s my BMI. The last piece of jewellery I bought was a Baltic amber teething necklace and this Summer I’ll be chaffing in shorts fastened with a hair band thanks to my new tummy that hangs over my c-section scar like a zebra print moonbag. My mascara has coagulated past its use by date and my eyebrow plucker has cashed in its super and commenced an early retirement.

After eight months on maternity leave I don’t know if or when I’ll return to my previously satisfying job. Could I leave my gorgeous baby boy in the care of strangers while I fiddle with marketing plans and Photoshop double chins? I’m not sure. My role has been snapped up by a 20-something year old who is willing and able to spend 60 hours a week tied to her desk at the mercy of the constantly shrinking deadline. Would the executive group want to trade her in for a part-timer who’ll be doing the childcare dash at 4.30pm every afternoon? I doubt it. Search part-time marketing and communications roles on Seek and you don’t even need to scroll, a reduction in work hours brings up a short list of assistant roles paying less than a nugget fryer at Maccas. After years of fighting for promotions and working through weekends, I’ve stepped off the career escalator for a while and my bank balance is currently in debit of 86c.

Late nights socialising with friends and performing in sometimes dodgy theatre productions have become cosy nights in, dreaming up different accents for Mr Rubber Ducky, and singing Wallace the Wondrous Warthog to an audience of one. I go to bed at 8.30pm knowing I’ll be up at 12, 3 and 5 to nurse or cuddle and sometimes swear. My Masters, which I planned to finish at the end of this year, may take another five and I haven’t seen or heard from most of my gay mates as suburban mums with muffin top aren’t the trendiest club companions.

While I’d love to say that I still read three novels a month and am able to come up with witty one-liners and unique cultural observations, my bedside table is now piled with books on sleep training and last week I forgot how to spell “yoghurt”. I haven’t said anything remotely amusing since last November and when I hear myself talk about nappy contents and baby-led weaning, I start to wonder why no one has offered me a job as an aural anaesthetist.

I’m grateful that my husband and I travelled extensively as newlyweds because ever since flying to South Africa with a five-month-old, I’ve been Googling “self lobotomy” to rid my brain of the memory. I know Christmas in New York is lovely, but we’ll be spending the next 18 December’s in either Ballarat, Creswick or Geelong.

Now before the smoke starts rising from the keyboards of mummy trolls, let me say that I wouldn’t change a thing. Sticking my post-coital legs in the air for eights months was the best decision I ever made. My gorgeous little chicken-legged cherub has crept into deepest crevices of my heart and made my life fuller than I ever imagined it could be. Sure I’m fat and unfashionable and I haven’t waxed my legs in eight weeks, my career is in the toilet and a new grey hair just sprung up to say “Hi, you’re old”, but I’m the best goddamn frog impersonator in Melbourne and my little man thinks I’m Miranda Kerr. So if you ask me to describe myself between the Ground Floor and Level 2, I may just say, “I’m a new mum” and leave it at that. Because for now, that’s more than enough.