The other day, in an IM conversation, Jeanne and I were talking about nursing. One of the things that came up was the concept of mama getting "her body back," after pregnancy and nursing, etc. And that comment stuck with me, because for me, nursing IS getting my body back, in so many ways.

For one, I don’t use the word breastfeeding. I don’t like it. It sounds clinical and removed, and I’m sure it’s probably rooted in some political correctness ideal, but we don’t say "hey, check out the giraffe breastfeeding her calf," or "lookie! The panda is breastfeeding!"  For other mammals, we say nursing. Nursing to me, conveys so much more than ‘breastfeeding.’  Nursing conjures up a sentiment, and not just an activity. It more closely matches the feeling of feeding your baby from your own body, the physical act and bond that IS different than using a bottle.

(Okay, disclaimer city, if bottlefeeding is your bag, that’s totally cool, "feed yer baby" is the first rule, so please don’t get upset with me pontificating about how *I* prefer to feed my baby, because I know that I am fortunate to be able to do so.)

So, when Jeanne mentioned the concept of "getting your body back," it was odd for me to think "but, I DO have my body back."  Here’s the thing: nursing DOES give me my body back. My body is totally changed after the experience of pregnancy. My pregnancy wasn’t all wine and roses, as anyone whose read knows, what with the low progesterone, miscarriage history, back spasms, gestational diabetes, leg pain/sciatica, etc — but it was pretty damn cool. I really LIKED it. I really mourned the physical state once it was over, because I knew that I would only ever experience the feeling of my own child moving within me twice, if I’m lucky and things work out. Maybe that was the only time I’d feel it. WHo knows. What I do know, is that I really, really loved how my body morphed in that time. Not the look, because good lord,maternity clothes blow, but the feeling of "THIS is what my body has been made to do."  I’m not an athlete, I’m uncoordinated as all fuck, I had to have SPECIAL GYM when I was a kid, because I wasn’t getting what I was supposed to get out of regular gym.  So, yeah, me and my body have a long history of opposition. I abused it with smoking for ten years, I’ve never been a regular exerciser, and when I quit smoking, I had a struggle with weight. In my last journal, I wrote about wishing I could remove my head from my body, because my head — my head was in good shape. I had a good brain. A good sense of humor. It was my strong point. My body? Get rid of it, because it’s useless, except that it keeps blood flowing to my brain.

Pregnancy changed that. Pregnancy connected my brain to my body (in fact, it sucked a lot of my brain directly into my uterus, I think) in a way that had never, ever happened for me before. Cartwheels? I can’t do. Gestate? BRING. IT. ON.

And when pregnancy ended, with that last push that sent Ingrid into the world, I temporarily lost my body for a minute. It actually morphed into an entirely new entity, one that could still do it’s job of growing a human, but the human was now on the outside. At first, I was flailing like every attempted cartwheel. In the labor room, I panicked at the sudden split of my new body, terrified that with Ingrid on the outside, I was doomed to fail again, to end up in special gym, shrugging and saying "well, at least I’m smart."  It took a few days, my flat nipples slowed us down a bit, but after a few days, we were off running, no restraint, no special gym.

And when I’m nursing Ingrid in the middle of the night, her sleepy body a different one than that of the day-nursings, she stretches against me, puts her hand flat on my breastbone, or wrapped around my thumb, and her legs roll against me, I realize: This is my body now. My body isn’t back.  My body is finally here.