When a 7-year-old girl asked if I was pregnant, I thought it high time to address the pressing struggle that is the food baby. Seeing as the organs responsible for motherhood have been malfunctioning in my body for over a year; rest assured Dad, I’d only likely be expecting a Granny Smith apple anyway.
Though a seemingly long running joke within the Brown family is the rotund nature of our stomach region, which was mistakenly assigned by our mum along the beaches of Rhodes; I think I’ve now gone so beyond this trait that I’d probably inherently merge better with the big Greek man sat propped in his sun-lounger.
The fact that losing weight, being skinny, or ridding any part of my body showing remnants of fat, were my only incentives and drives; sporting a stomach that outwardly protrudes a greater distance than what my backside does, doesn’t half faze me as much in the way that one would expect. I suppose scientifically, if you’ve been depriving and electively starving your body for so long, naturally this new revelation of food intake again is going to pose some kind of unfamiliarity and the alarm bells in my digestive system will undoubtedly begin sounding. So really, I’m possibly more concerned over the fact that my poor intestines are probably having to work major overtime, than the fact I look like I’m concealing a small village of Frodo’s in my abdomen.
Gradually accumulating in size as I more consistently fuel my body throughout the day; come the time where I’m set for bed each night, I remain ever surprised that my belly button is yet to shoot out from my midriff and shatter my mirror. So having received this comment by the young girl only post breakfast and lunch, I can only imagine it would’ve changed to “Are you having triplets?” had I been working post breakfast, lunch AND dinner.
I think taking into account my general physique as a whole, it would become blindingly apparent that something isn’t quite adding up with my Twiglet triceps and knobbly knees, alongside my gargantuan gut and side-splitting stomach; which is possibly why I’m able to deal with the idea that I look almost 9 months into a pregnancy. Though appearing unnatural; it’s probably worth taking into account, that as frightening as it can sometimes be to accept, that what’s causing this change in appearance is from a necessity that still scares me (food); my body is at least probably working more naturally now than it once was. If you’re wanting to overcome anorexia, I suppose you’re just going to have to experience the inevitable response to regularity in food consumption. A ‘food baby’ is just one of those junk e-mail, eating disorder recovery add ons, you’re forced to have to accept.
In case you’re wondering my response to the young inquisitor… I thought instead of dauntingly lumbering her with an explanation that I suffer with anorexia, so I used to starve myself, but now I’m trying to recover, so I’m eating a bit more, and now my body’s response is making me look pregnant which is why I have such a bloating belly; I just laughed and said “Yeah! Got any nice baby names?”
(I’ll undoubtedly never see her again anyway)