Ahhh, the monthly weigh-in. I am well aware that society’s obsession with an unattainable body shape has been poisoning my mind for the better part of 20 years. Knowing that does not make it go away. I wouldn’t say that I “struggle” with my weight so much as am always conscious of it. I own a ridiculous number of jeans because my weight can vary about 5-10 pounds depending on what’s going on in my life, what season it is, and whether or not City Market is stocking Mexican Chocolate ice cream. I don’t usually weigh myself and just grab the next size up pair of jeans if I’m feeling particularly breathless when buttoning up. Pregnancy, however, necessitates one of the greatest enemies known to woman: monthly weight checks.
Maybe it’s the fact that I feed Blaine every few hours and tend to snack on a few too many goldfish and animal crackers myself. Maybe it’s the week that I ran out of my 2% milk and had whole milk in my cereal. And with dinner. Maybe it’s my sister sending me cookies to photograph for our other sister’s personalized cookie-cookbook-wedding-gift. (She’s lucky they last long enough to get photographed.) I don’t know. But the fact remains that from my last appointment, I have gained seven pounds for a total of 18 pounds already – and I’m only at 24 weeks. Allegedly the baby only weighs one pound or so, which seems a little on the conservative side considering it appears to be the size of a bowling ball. Go figure.
Sigh. My husband tells me I look gorgeous (though his motives are always suspect), everyone says I look “great” (though nobody criticizes a pregnant woman unless they want to be punched in the face), and I don’t feel particularly large…except in the belly region. I tell myself to just accept it and move on after baby is born. But I’m just not sure when I’m going to be able to run / bike / walk in between feedings / naps / going crazy. The battle continues.