March 29, 2007 - Opinion

Baby, what a body does

By Nancy Clark

When I was pregnant with my first child, I did not know what to expect would change, particularly when it came to my body and anything physical. Somehow the other kinds of changes weren’t lost on me: I could calculate the rate of my future child’s college degree at an Ivy League institution 18 years down the line, I could envision trips to Disneyland en famille, and I could see a nursery in my future decorated in baby-neutral tan and white. That was 28 years ago, before ultra-sounds were routine and the baby’s sex remained a surprise until delivery.

My tummy billowed and my pantyhose rolled down into an uncomfortable crease just over my upper leg. I gave up pantyhose. There was no such thing as pantyhose with an expanding belly panel in those days. I gave up waxing. I looked like a lollipop on a stick when I tried on the swimsuit loaned to me from a friend six months ahead of me on the mommy track. I could no longer see my ankles from a standing position (just the tips of my toes which I kept painted, pedicures being a luxury I wouldn’t give up) and I dressed up in a red stretch Lycra (popular in the ’70s) pantsuit as a tomato for Halloween.

Somehow, even after sitting through introductory Lamaze classes and hearing the instructor delineate the symptoms of impending labor, like water breaking, I was a skeptic. I was certain I was going to sleep through delivery and then have an unholy mess to clean up in my bed, not to mention fearing I’d deliver and then fall asleep and possibly roll over the baby or let it roll off the bed.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep through labor or delivery.

I didn’t sleep much at all. If there was a litmus test for motherhood preparedness, I wouldn’t have passed. That is the reason I ran short on onesies, calculating that an outfit a day was adequate for my newborn daughter’s wardrobe—not factoring in that the diapers didn’t fit snugly around the legs on her 7-pound frame. I didn’t count on my hair falling out in heaps into the bathroom sink or that my feet would grow half a size or that I would never wear a size 4 again. But I wouldn’t trade the furrows that etched their way across my brow worrying she’d drown in swimming lessons or the laugh lines that carved their way around my mouth watching her dance with her grandfather at Cotillion or the fanning crow’s feet that multiplied as I squinted into the sun watching her fledgling soccer team move like bees in a hive down the field.

I’ve had a photo of my daughter and me on the wall for two decades—a close-up that, untouched, shows only a hint of the lines that debuted years later. I’d pass by that photo 10 times a day and never look at it, until I moved houses and took it down from the wall to dust off the years at this address. For just a moment I really studied the two of us at that moment so long ago. At that time there was no Botox® to ease wrinkles or Restylane™ to plump up my thinning lips or laser microdermabrasion to restore the freshness to my complexion or eyelid lifts or fat transfers or on and on.

If the products and services available today had been even a thought back then, I can’t say I would have started any rejuvenation projects earlier than I did. (Remember, I was the one who thought I’d sleep through childbirth.) But now that treatments to maintain a younger-looking face and neck are possible, I’m all over them at age 50-plus. I have girlfriends who sign up for a facelift the minute their daughters get engaged, prompted to make a move when they realize their once-good looks have diminished over the years, like tarnish on silver candlesticks.

The new consciousness about beauty and youth and keeping the machine together for as long as one can isn’t lost on the young either. My daughter just informed me she’d had Botox for her forehead creases, probably inspired by long hours of study in between part-time jobs during law school. She was among the first I’ve known to go for Botox in the armpits to stop profuse sweating, something that had its onset in the courtroom for her, making her uncomfortable enough to insist she wasn’t a litigator when in fact she’s turned out to perform well (and stay dry) after the career-altering injections.

The youngest women in my office talk among themselves about the latest chemical peel they had or the latest laser skin rejuvenation treatment. They make no bones about coming to work pink-skinned and shiny with evidence of just having undergone a specialty treatment a day or two prior. They are fully tuned into the manifold maintenance beauty options and those procedures are as much a part of their conversations as boy-talk. One threw out as an aside last week that she could count on the results from treatment at the hands of her facial plastic surgeon more than she could count on some guy calling for a second date.

And then it hit me, the new wave of interest in plastic surgery, non-invasive treatments and even product for at-home daily use is all about commitment. Young women are committing at a much younger age to stay looking that way, to avoid accepting that they have to appear older just because their chronological clock is ticking, never mind their biological one.

And so we have something to look forward to in a more informed age ahead—young women who are educated consumers who understand the nuances of looking good and how to achieve that at their cosmetic surgeon’s office. Something tells me these young ladies know a lot more about most things than I ever did at their age. And I’m betting not a one of them fears sleeping through delivery.