Last night, after my workout, I forgot to put a shirt on.

For four hours, I walked around our home wearing a Target nursing bra and GAP Body short shorts. I cooked dinner that way, I talked to my friend Amanda for 45 minutes on the phone that way, I watched Californication with my husband that way and I brushed my teeth, swallowed my vitamins and hit the sack that way.

This is a relatively new phenomenon for me. Sure, there have been questionable stretches of time where I showed lots of skin: My freshman year of college, when I ran around my dorm wearing tee shirts barely long enough to cover my butt; my early 20s, when I danced until 4 a.m. in cages at clubs clad in what could barely be described as scraps of fabric; years at the gym where I worked out in just sports bras and bike shorts. But all of those phases occurred during periods of disordered eating or horrible body image issues. I suspect I was acting out in some way, revealing skin in an effort to trick people into thinking I was comfortable with, or even proud of, my figure, at times when I truly was not.

Then I got better and left the ED bullshit behind. I stopped stepping on the scale and forgot to look at the “Calories Burned” readout on the elliptical machine and no longer ordered dishes at restaurants When Harry Met Sally-style .(“I’ll begin with a house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing. I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce. On the side.”)I was content with my body — not in an over-the-moon, submit-my-pics-to-Playboy kind of way, but I learned to focus on what my body allowed me to do and began to appreciate its strength, its height, its power. During this period of recovery, I dressed more appropriately; I was never mistaken for an Amish woodworker, mind you, but I wasn’t exactly frolicking around the pool in a thong.

Then I had a baby, and everything changed — in a way for which I was totally unprepared. Today, I love my body. Not just in a “Today is October 17^th, it’s National Love Your Body Day!” sort of a way. It’s in an, “I want to run around naked because I am obsessed with my boobs and hey, the rest of me looks pretty damn good, too” sort of way. Not only was I not plagued by stretch marks or significant weight gain while carrying Evie, but breastfeeding had some sort of bizarre affect on my metabolism, to the point where I regularly snack on cups of buttercream frosting and order dishes like short ribs and fried calamari when dining out, and it just sort of burns off. Up top, my small-B chest has swollen to a nice C-cup, which I feel perfectly balances out my five-eleven-ness. Last week, during a baby-free Cancun weekend getaway with Dan, I found myself purposefully leaving my cover-up* in our hotel room and not only parading around the pool in my new Victoria’s Secret (Size Large!) bikini top and string bottoms, but attempting to dine at the indoor buffet in non-omelet bar-friendly attire. For the first time in my life, I am truly singing, “I love my body.” And I don’t want to feel ashamed or egotistical for doing so, because I’ve wasted far too many years screaming just the opposite at myself.

But here’s the rub: This body that I love, it’s a false body. As soon as I stop breastfeeding, the boobs will surely deflate and my teenage boy metabolism will probably screech to a halt. No more mid-afternoon noshes of whole jumbo avocados mashed up with garlic salt and slathered on Stacey’s pita chips; no more Dairy Queen runs for extra cookie dough. No more size 27 jeans. No more Victoria’s Secret Size Large bikini tops.

What I hopehopehope happens is that, come weaning time, my enhanced outlook stays with me even as my physique resettles into its old comfort zone. That I still feel comfortable walking around the pool sans cover-up and I don’t feel compelled to revert to ordering side salads squirted with lemon juice. I do believe that simply the act of being a mom to a little girl will have its own protective effects on my body image; she’s already taught me so much about adoring what I see when I look in the mirror.

And maybe – just maybe – one of the reasons I love this amplified chest so much is because of what it represents: That I am growing and nurturing our child.  To her, they offer sustenance and comfort. I wonder if perhaps that knowledge is subconsciously coloring my perspective: When I see “36 C” on my bra label, I interpret it as “Size: Nourishing.”**

But for now, as I move towards my goal of nursing for one year, I’m going to keep “forgetting” to get dressed and shovel in as many slices of deep dish as I can. Because the truth is, I’ve taken another page from the When Harry Met Sally playbook: After years of hating it, my thoughts about my bod are now of the “Oh…Oh God…Oh, ohh…Yes, Yes, YES!” variety. And damn, it feels good.

How has your body image changed postbaby?

*But what a cute cover-up it is!

**Please note, this is not me saying that moms who feed their babies formula are in any way less than. Nor am I saying a woman needs big breasts to breastfeed, because she doesn’t.

My weight has been going up (and up!) over the last couple of years. Here’s my history:

2009: Got engaged at my lowest adult weight ever
2010: Got married 10 pounds heavier
2011: Got pregnant 20 pounds heavier than that
2012: Delivered my son at 25 pounds heavier than that

After the birth of my son, I lost 22 of those pregnancy pounds very quickly — like in two weeks! I didn’t do anything specific; it certainly wasn’t my focus in those days. But the weight just fell off. Maybe it was the breastfeeding. Maybe it was because at the end of my pregnancy, I’d developed high blood pressure (and water weight to go right along with it), so I also lost a lot of weight when that water went away.

But after that, I started gaining again. And gaining. And gaining. I’ve always been a stress eater. And there were some stressful moments those first few months! I’ve also been a boredom eater. And there were some boring moments as well. (You can only stare at a sleeping baby for so long.)

So now, I’ve regained about 15 of those pounds. If I kept up this pace, I’ll be about 50 pounds heavier than I was in 2009 at my son’s first birthday. That’s not good! Part of me wanted to ignore the issue. Since we’re trying to conceive again, I thought it’s no big deal. I’ll just have a little more weight to lose after the next pregnancy. Part of me reasoned that I’m not as heavy as I once was (years ago), so it’s not time for panic yet.

But I came to realize that it isn’t something I can (or should!) ignore. Getting to a lower weight will probably make the next pregnancy easier. In fact, my last couple of menstrual cycles have been a little wonky and getting to a healthier weight may help with those, too. Plus, well, I don’t want to have to buy a bunch of new, bigger clothes! I am starting to ‘hide’ from the camera for fear of looking too heavy in pictures and I don’t want that either. I want to be in pictures with my baby, so that we can remember these moments.

So I’ve joined Weight Watchers. And so far, it’s been great for me. I didn’t realize the cost of each soda I sip. Or of the bag of chips I have while sitting at my desk. Or the extra portion of spaghetti at dinner. It all adds up. And it adds up rather quickly.

For me, it’s not so much the baby weight that I need to lose, but the mommy weight. And no, we won’t be putting our trying to conceive plans off until I’m at a goal weight. I think this will be good for me — and my fertility. You could say that I’m losing weight while I’m waiting.  Waiting for those two pink lines, that is.  Should I see them, I’ll have to give up the weight loss efforts, but I’ll still keep my healthy eating focus.

What have you done to lose the baby or mommy weight?

Photo: Public Domain Pictures