My 2 year old takes swim lessons. They’re 15 minutes long with a private instructor and I sit by the side and watch. I sit by the side and watch. When did I get old enough to sit by the side and watch someone take swim lessons? I still remember my own mother coming to my soccer or lacrosse games. I played. She watched. Rooting with the other parents – the other old parents. Observers rather than participators. In my youth, it never occurred to me that I would ever be relegated to the sidelines. I see now how young my mother was and wonder if, watching me, she felt the same.
It struck me yesterday as I observed my own child, I’m not ready to be benched for good. I don’t feel as old as the woman wearing my skin. But what can I do? It’s not my turn anymore. It’s their turn to play and win and fall and learn. And it’s my job to sit there and watch as they do it.
I don’t want to grow old.
The first time I got pregnant I gained 70 pounds. The second time I outdid myself at 75. I have no idea how I did it, but I feel like some thanks goes to the Talenti ice cream corp.
As a small-boned woman ten pounds is a lot of extra weight for my frame. Seventy-five is just obscene. It’s given me back problems, knee problems, feet problems, and fitting into my pants problems. Unfortunately, the weight doesn’t magically disappear the moment you give birth.
With my first child it took me exactly 9 months to get rid of the extra extra. Nine months of hip hop dancing, jogging, and body sculpting to whittle myself from the 200 club back down to a nice even 125. The thing was, even at my old weight, nothing quite looked the same. Even if the scale said I was my old weight, it was a different interstate system on my body.
With baby number two, I once again joined the 200 club. Luckily, I lost 40 of it during birth. Ten more have dropped off since then and now I’ve got 25 pounds left before my scale sings true. The thing is, I’m not sure this 125 is going to look anything like the last 125 or the 125 before that. Granted, I just started exercising again, but still, my body does not feel like my own. It’s like when I go to Whole Foods and they call me ma’am. Ma’am? I gained a baby not an old lady mole.
My Pilates instructor promises that once I stop eating smores every night, things will be different. I’m not counting on. My girlfriend across the street says that sometimes after two babies, it’s one-piece season in Beachland. I’ll let you know what I find, but I want my Miss status back and I think I need my skinny white jeans to do it.