Body: I don't think you're ready for this jelly

My body is amazing.  Sometimes I look at Crusher's little hands with his itty bitty fingerprints or his beautiful eyes looking around in wonder at the world and think, "Wow.  God used my body to make this child.  He was an egg and now he's a boy." My organs moved for him.  My uterus grew enormous and then shrank back to the way it was.  My boobs make him food.  It's crazy and miraculous and wonderful.

However...

Right after having Crusher I felt completely disgusting.  I hurt.  My hormones were going nuts.  There were icky fluids coming out of everywhere - blood, milk leaking out all over my clothes, night sweats. My hips and thighs were bigger than before (and they were plenty big to begin with) and I had this jelly belly.  Seriously, it looked as though there were a thick layer of jelly between my skin and my abs.  Complete with a linea negra that doesn't seem to want to fade.  The belly has gone down substantially since, but at seven weeks postpartum I still don't fit into real pants.  I wear yoga pants, leggings, sweats, and maternity jeans if I must.  I don't actually like real pants, but that's beside the point.  I have a closet full of clothes that I can't wear. I avoid looking in the mirror.  I dress as quickly as possible.  I cringe inside if my husband's in the room when the belly is showing.

How do I reconcile my wonder with my miracle-body with my horror at my still-healing-flubby body?

In my rational brain, I know it just takes time (if it took 9 months to gain the weight, it's not just going to disappear) and exercise and healthy eating.  In my panicked emotional brain, I fear and make excuses.  It's hard to make time to exercise when one has a needy baby who doesn't like to nap in his crib.  It's also hard to exercise with gigantic, leaky boobies.  It's hard to find time to prepare healthy food when my window of having two free hands is unpredictable.  I start cooking projects and have to abandon them because Crusher's crying. It's hard to be patient with some of my other postpartum friends and relations already fit in their gosh durned pants.

That's my whining party.  Hopefully, by ranting about it I can put it aside and be done for a while.  I have a gorgeous, healthy baby.  My husband watches him so I can exercise sometimes (like today!  Wahoo!).  I didn't buy the chips I wanted very much all week.  (I did buy the cinnamon rolls, but nobody's perfect.)

As an aside, I had David take before pictures for an exercise regimen I may or may not be able to complete (it requires 45 minutes 6 days a week).  I haven't been brave enough to look at them myself, and rest assured, dear readers, you will probably never have to see them.  Here's hoping there are decent after pictures eventually.  Even if there aren't, he's worth it.