Good Job, Body
By Elle Wilkerson
@wonderfilledwilks
I peek into the family room from my post at the kitchen sink and watch the battle unfold. Harris, my five-year-old son, leaps from couch cushion to couch cushion, narrowly avoiding imaginary enemy rockets and karate chops. He defends himself with a simple, bulletless Nerf gun. He springs from the arm of the couch and lands—one fist to the ground and one first clenching the Nerf gun, reaching toward the sky.
He stands up and quietly says to himself, “Good job, body.” He slaps himself firmly on his chest and wanders into the kitchen desperate for a(nother) snack.
***
Everyone throws water bottles in the backpack for the hike. It’s our first attempt at hiking with the entire family, but we’re optimistic because most of the cousins (seven kids including mine) are grown and walking on their own. Typically, we end these vacations with a final trip to the camp ice cream store (which is a bit more my style), but today all fifteen of us will brave Panther Mountain. I tighten the laces on my unused but very fancy running shoes. I throw my ring sling around my back and look at Brooks—my nine-month-old, affectionately nicknamed Chunka-Munka for the perfect layer of chub surrounding his entire body—and say, “Okay boy. It’s me and you. We’re conquering this mountain.”
His head cocks to the side and his blue eyes twinkle in delight at his mama’s voice, clueless to the trek ahead.
“Mountain might be a stretch,” my in-laws reassure me. “It’s basically a large hill.”
I can climb a large hill. Sure, every hike I’ve attempted since we got married has ended in tears. The bike ride Mark and I took around Central Park three years ago ended in tears. The run I took to the park a half mile from my house last week ended in tears. For some reason, I cry every time I exercise. I’m not sure why. Repressed emotion, maybe? (Add this to the list of things I need to discuss with my therapist.)
But I will not cry today. Today, I will be strong.
We arrive at the bottom of the “large hill,” and yes … it is, indeed, large. Very large. And towering. And wet. And rocky. No tears, I remind myself. I strap in the baby and set off.
A few minutes in, my lower back spasms and reminds me of the complete and total lack of core muscles I possess. I try to tighten my “abs” to help balance all twenty-two pounds of Brooks in the ring sling. We climb up and up. I inhale deeply while trying to not sound desperate for air.
While oxygen fills my lungs, I remember the deep breaths I struggled for when I discovered the blood clot in my lungs days after giving birth to this boy strapped to my chest. I let go of the air and kiss him on the head. A tear tries to escape my eyes, but I wipe it away. Thirty minutes in, we stop for water and my brother-in-law offers to take the baby for the rest of the hike.
I quickly look down at my feet and shake my head no. I know if I think for too long, I’ll give up the chance to conquer this climb. “I really want to do it myself.” The beat of my heart quickens with pride and desire at the thought of carrying this baby boy up the mountain alone. Despite the beads of sweat dripping down my forehead and the cramping in my lower back, I sense somewhere in my gut that this job is mine and mine alone.
I look back at my brother-in-law. “I think I need to do it myself.” I say.
We continue our climb. As we walk, I feel my legs beneath me. I feel my feet planted firmly in the damp soil and feel my fingers close around trees lining the path to steady myself. I savor each breath. I let the sweat drip down my forehead. I feel my leg muscles burn and my back muscles spasm, but I feel grateful. This body might not have much to offer: my core strength is lacking; my legs grow weary after one flight of stairs; my stomach carries around many pounds of leftover baby weight. But still it carries me and my baby boy where we need to go.
After two hours of stop and go climbing, we shimmy up a rock wall and arrive at our final destination. The beauty at the top of the mountain—a shimmering lake, green mountains, a clear blue sky—is almost lost on me as I look down at my body, glistening with sweat and shaking slightly from the exertion. I pull Brooks from the carrier, laughing and sweating profusely, and tears do fall down my face.
Tears of pride and strength and relief.
I have been pregnant for some part of eight of the last nine years. EIGHT. I take a deep breath just to let the enormity of this number sink in. My body conceived eight little lives. Four of those lives I never had the privilege of holding in my arms. The other four grew inside me, stretching me in ways I never thought my body could be stretched. My body underwent four c-sections to bring those babies into this world. Eighteen IVs. Fifty-four nights in the hospital. Over 100 blood draws. My body healed from placental tears and uterine ruptures. My body alerted me to a blood clot in my lung and early onset preeclampsia. My body survived blood pressure issues and fertility drugs. She fought. She survived. She sustained. She evolved. She provided.
***
I’m standing in my bedroom surrounded by a mix of postpartum and maternity clothes, finally sorting through my overstuffed closet. While I pack up leggings, I walk past the full length mirror that I usually try to avoid and catch my reflection. It is … bigger than I remembered. The tight fitting waist of my jeans shows uncomfortably under my sweater. It clings a bit tighter in the arms than it used to. When I stand up straight, my chin turns into two chins. But when I slouch, my neck disappears. I sigh. Let’s save the mirror for another day. I leave my room and yell across the house for Mark, my husband, to start gathering our kids for an inevitably chaotic trip to the mall.
Thirty minutes, seven snacks, and four children buckled in car seats later, we are on our way.
We stroll the mall, popping in store after store to make Christmas returns before my pile of I-swear-I’ll-return-this-one-day pile turns into a stack of regrets and wasted money. A month ago, my younger (read: cooler, trendier, slimmer) sister had recommended Abercrombie and Fitch jeans to me, and while the wide-legged, high-waisted vibe seemed fun on paper, the look just didn’t land on my three-month postpartum bod. Or should I just say my seven-year postpartum bod. I’ve never really returned to that original body anyway.
I slink into Abercrombie & Fitch hoping to make my return quickly and get out before anyone notices my skinny jeans and side part. God forbid they see the multiple spit up stains on my sweatshirt. The smell of “Fierce” perfume fills my nostrils and immediately brings me back to middle school dances. The girl at the register grabs my jeans and regrettably informs me that I am a week past the return date.Her crop top wants to know if I am fine with the return going on a gift card. I grit my teeth and nod. I look back at my husband (currently pushing and pulling the stroller in quick spurts just outside the store to keep the two little kids quiet) and consider my options. Ordering more jeans at home almost definitely means another painful trip back to the mall to make returns.
“I’m going to go try on some jeans,” I whisper-yell to him from the register. I tilt my head and smile, eyes wide as if to say “I have to go back into this store of young, tiny people and be naked in the dressing room and try on JEANS. Save me, please!”
He smiles back, silently saying, “You got this.”
I bring my five-year-old, Harris, back with me to brave the wild jungle of Gen-Z fashion. We walk through the store and try to avoid the scantily clad mannequins. I quickly grab three pairs of jeans and make my way to the dressing room. I strip off my tummy-control leggings and yank on the first pair of pants. I could already feel the resistance as I pulled it over my belly. Harris watches as I zip the pants and try to pull the buttons closed. I look at myself in the mirror. I look down at his face.
He grins and asks, “Why’s ya belly so squishy, Mommy?”
I look down at him and tell him, “I used all that squish to help grow you four babies!”
He squats down to the ground, quickly jumps up into the air, and slaps my belly with his big, strong five year old muscles.
“Good job, body!” he yells. I laugh and consider Harris’s catchphrase of the week. I look back at myself in the mirror. I try to see what he sees.
I spend my days trying to see the world from his point of view: I offer empathy and grace and compassion at every turn. But I have never stopped to see myself through his eyes. My belly—soft, stretched, a safe place to land. My arms—strong and inviting, available for hugs, back rubs, and transportation. My legs—solid, steady, grounded, ready to walk and even hike with my four babies through every season. This body pours out for him. This body endures sleepless nights for the sake of love and safety. This body survives on half eaten peanut butter and jellies and chai tea lattes. This body serves as a jungle-gym, a safe haven, a well-stocked hospital, a comfortable bed, and a refuge from the world.
I consider all my body has been through, all she has survived in the name of motherhood. I feel the way my son sees my imperfect body and my chest swells with pride. I smile and unzip the pants. My body relaxes as I pull off the jeans.
One day, maybe the jeans will fit. Or maybe not.
Either way. Good job, body.
Guest essay written by Elle Wilkerson. Elle is a part-time high school English teacher, part-time ghostwriter and full-time mama. She lives outside Chicago with her husband, Mark, and her four beautiful kids—Hadley, Harris, Ellis, and Brooks. She survives on chai tea lattes, and quiet, early mornings in her leather chair. She drinks hot drinks even when it's 90 degrees outside and feels most at home with a book in her hands and a friend on her couch.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.