Every now and again, when I duck into Mimi Maternity or Pea in a Pod I run into another pregnant lady (I know, who’d have thought it?). The sort of pregnant lady that makes me gnash my teeth and drool in her direction (she’s probably all, who let Crazy McFat Pants out of her cage?).
Because while I’ve looked about 6 months pregnant since day 4 or 5, my rolls getting rolls on top of even more love handles, my cellulite now covering me in some sort of bizarre pregnancy suit, my bra stretching and groaning uncomfortably against my saggy boobs, she serenely pats her tiny belly as she confides in the salesclerk that she’s due any day now.
I pray feverishly as I peer between the racks of clothing to find something that’s decidedly more flattering to the figure (what figure? I look like an olive on toothpicks) than what I’m wearing, that she’s about to divulge that this is her first baby or something, anything to make me feel better about myself and my ham-hock arms at 4 and a half months along, before she then mentions that this is her fifth baby.
She looks so put together, so firm and taut in her ass and thighs, obviously she hadn’t gained a pound over the recommended whatever it is you’re supposed to gain, while I? I look like I rolled out of bed, snapped on a bra, pulled my hair back and then went out in public. Which is precisely what I did.
And I am jealous. I’d love to be a svelte and sexy pregnant lady, gaining the tiniest amount of weight in my belly only rather than turning my ass into a shelf and my face into a moon pie. Ain’t gonna happen in THIS lifetime, sister.
When I had my first baby, I got hungry. I put my eatin’ pants on and I ate pretty much anything and everything I could get my grubby mitts on. I ate at least 2-3 times what I was supposed to eat, washing down every meal with a milkshake or three while I munched candy bars I hadn’t eaten in years.
Sure, I knew I was gaining weight, so I eventually just asked the nurse not to tell me what the scale said when I stepped onto it. There was no law saying I had to KNOW how fat I’d gotten, right? Besides, I’d just breastfeed it off later, I told myself.
Ben, who unbeknown to me at the time was autistic, refused to get anywhere near my massive mammeries once I popped him out, and after a spell of pumping he became a formula baby.
Fast forward 5 years. I’ve taken off the weight, however painfully, and am now pregnant with Alex. I have made precisely one promise to myself: I wasn’t going to become a fat ass when I got pregnant again.
Morning sickness, then hyperemesis struck, and even as I purged whatever molecules of food from my system, I watched horrified as the scale went up. Between 5-9 weeks, I gained 11 pounds. I ate nothing, threw up so hard that my nose was permanently bleeding and I gained weight.
Once I was able to hold down food again (around 18 weeks and 25 pounds heavier), I ate well. I ate so well that people couldn’t believe how fat I was getting. Egg whites, tofu, veggies, fruits. Small portions eaten often. And yet I found myself on the delivery table having gained 56 pounds. A mere 10 pounds lighter than when I’d had Ben.
(as an aside, it hurt me to no end that only The Daver believed me that I wasn’t secretly gorging upon hostess products and lard at night and while he was at work. Everyone else seemed to believe that I was lying for some reason, and was just ashamed of my weight gain. While I was TOTALLY ashamed, I’d never lie about something like that)
Oh well, I told myself, at least I’d breastfeed it off with this one. Alex was a champion nurser, nursed often and with gusto, and I knew I’d be back into my size 6’s in no time.
Go ahead, laugh away. I won’t blame you.
Turns out that no matter what LLL tells you, not EVERYONE loses weight while breastfeeding. Just wanted to be clear here, because I seriously wish like hell that anyone had told me this before I nearly killed myself trying to get this weight off.
So when I got pregnant with The Sausage, I made a vow to myself to eat what I want and enjoy it without feeling guilty about any weight gains I’ve had. My body does apparently like to pack on the pounds while pregnant, so why fight it? It’s not worth it to beat myself up over every single pound.
And so far? I’ve not gained an insane amount of weight for someone almost 18 weeks pregnant. Which shocks the shitballs out of me. Who knew that I just needed to let go and eat pretty much any and everything that I can find? My week’s menu reads just like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, and I’m loving every second of it.
Who the hell knew?
So dish. Tell me about YOUR pregnancy weight gain. Please tell me I’m not alone in reaching epic blimp-like proportions while pregnant. Or if I am, will you pass the ketchup and chocolate. Aunt Becky is ready for her 1st dinner.