I Just Need to Get This Off My Scale (I mean, "chest")

I don't consider myself to be an overachiever. In the academic realm, I regret now that I only allowed myself to simply "get by" with A's and B's. I knew even then that I could do better, but I was much too concerned with being a social butterfly. Musically, I've always been more of a perfectionist, but even then, I was never driven to the top of the class, and while I did set (and achieve) my own personal standards, they by no means included holing myself up in a practice room for 8 + hours a day. There does, however, appear to be one area in my life where I love to show off: weight gain during pregnancy. Apparently, I pull out all stops and it's no holds barred between implantation and D-day.

I say "apparently," because this kind of weight gain came as a shock to me. I can vividly remember sitting in my OB's office at our first prenatal appointment when I was pregnant with Ella. When I asked how much weight I could expect to put on, my doctor matter of factly said, "oh, probably a good 30 lbs." I almost keeled over at even the thought of that much weight and silently vowed right then and there that I would not gain 30 lbs. No way. And as luck would have it, I didn't.

I gained 55.

There's a quote that says something to the effect of, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." (I'm finding that pretty much incapsulates all of parenthood). So about half-way through my pregnancy with Ella, I just stopped looking at the scale at the doctor's office. I figured ignorance truly is bliss. And I was incredibly relieved when all of the weight came off (and then some) in the first 6 months and I realized that I could actually abandon my original plans to breastfeed her until the 4th grade in order to get my body back. That would have been awkward.

But now, it's back to whistling and looking away as the nurse asks me to hop up on the scale and I'm once again scheming ways in which I can produce enough breastmilk to feed an orphanage once this baby arrives. I'm almost 16 weeks pregnant and it appears my body very clearly remembers how to make a baby. If there were classes being offered in this field, I'm guessing my body would have a major in gestation with a minor in fat storage. I'm currently in that awkward stage where I'm not obviously pregnant yet but appear to have "let myself go." Which is odd, because the only place I remember letting myself go was Arby's. My reasoning was simple. When you're newly-knocked up, hungry and constantly feeling on the verge of throwing up, if the only things that sound good to eat are a roast beef sandwich and mac 'n' cheese, well, that's what you eat. Of course, I questioned why I couldn't be like my friend Elizabeth who craved lima beans. Really, how could you go wrong eating those? Definitely a "scale-friendly" food. Not me, though. I wanted- needed- carbs and starches- baked potatoes, bagels, pasta, and then of course, the occasional (or maybe not so occasional) roast beef sandwhich from Arby's. I wasn't overly concerned about my weight, as the numbers didn't creep up very much in the first few weeks. But I can only assume that there must have been some sort of delayed reaction, because quite literally, I gained 4 lbs almost overnight (or over the course of a weekend). It's continued to come in spurts ever since. Unfortunately, it seems that my body has decided to hold on to every little calorie I eat, as if it's being starved and doesn't understand that there are limitless food options available. I wish I could somehow reason with it and explain that there really is no need for the bowl of cheerios I ate last night to make their way down to my hips....and yet, they did, and there they shall stay for quite some time. I cringe to think of what happens when we order pizza.

So, my weight gain to date...*drumroll please*....18 pounds in 15 weeks. How much of that is baby, you ask? Oh, about 4 ounces. (I win the prize, right?) And while I'm vaguely aware that I'll be having to put on a swimsuit in 3 weeks, I haven't really let that sink in. Denial is a good place to be for now. And the best place for my scale, I've decided, is buried deep in my closet, under my favorite pair of Seven jeans and other clothes that have been over-taken by my burgeoning body parts. I have high hopes that they will make their triumphant return sometime in 2011. Until then, what I don't know can't hurt me, right? ;)