I can’t wait to get my body back.
I think this thought constantly as the days, weeks, months tick by.
I can’t wait until I’m not a slave to breastfeeding. I can’t wait until I see a normal number on the scale. I can’t wait until my clothes fit right.
And then what if I have another baby and mess it all up again? How many babies is too many? Three babies? Four babies? At what point will my body never come back again?
I want more children. It’s one of my deepest desires in the world. But I would be lying if I said these other thoughts about my body, my freedom, my own beauty didn’t lurk in the back of my mind, mixed in with my hope for a big family, a gospel-legacy and a quiver full of arrows. I want the quiver, but I want it to rest upon a toned back and shoulders that coordinate with my flat stomach and strong, slim legs.
My stretched out, weary flesh is selfish. I want my body back. I want it to look a certain way. I want it to weigh a specific amount, down to the very ounce. I want my body to do the things I want to do on my timeline. I don’t want to stoop to discipline my toddler or sit down to nurse my infant for the fifth time of the day. When do I get my body back? That is my plea.
But when I look at Jesus, I see a man who poured himself out. I grow indignant at a year of breastfeeding, while he gave up his whole body on a cross.
I am convinced that motherhood is the richest soil to practice this giving up. To give away one’s body on behalf of another needy soul.
No, I will never get my body back.
I gave my body away the moment my heart skipped a beat at the sight of the word “pregnant.”