Hey, girl! Tubbi McGrosserton over here! At your service to devour chocolate cakes and random things dipped in peanut butter! Who am I kidding, I’m here to inhale anything laying around. Socks? Jump ropes? Cucumbers? J/k, I’m not eating cucumbers because it would encroach on the precious digestive space where PANCAKES!!! dipped in PIZZA!!! rolled in DONUTS!!! are supposed to go. At least according to my midwife who fat-shamed me into a blubbering grease puddle below the floor yesterday.
I’m at that point in pregnancy where I have to steady myself on chairs and store display shelves to get up from a low position. I’m large, okay? It’s also the time in pregnancy where medical visits come fast and furious. After forcing my husband to avert his eyes and cover his ear holes, I stepped on the scale in the midwives’ office. “Okay.” I declared. “I’m up two pounds in two weeks,” which at the rate of a pound-per-week in late pregnancy is right on course. I mentally planned my afternoon frolicking in the meadow with a tub of straight lard and a spoon.
A British accent as dry as day-old crumpets corrected me. “Actually, you’re up two and a half pounds.”
Maybe it’s time for real talk. I’ve already packed on the requisite 40 pounds for a normal pregnancy. I’m out of rope. No chips left. Save me the stories about how you’re a yogi sprite fairy who only gained eight pounds and fluttered out of labor & delivery in your prom dress. Have fun being Better. I ran out of available pounds two weeks ago and I still have over a month of this crap. Apparently my mouth is like a bass fish, just sitting there sucking in the contents of the world as it comes.
I told the room I didn’t understand. Truthfully, I don’t even have a sweet tooth. I recounted the previous day’s meals: a whole grain bagel with jelly, a spinach/mushroom/tomato omelet cooked in Pam for chrissakes for lunch and literally a cup of rice for dinner. Maybe like three pretzels. Sue me.
Gorgeous, mermaid-haired, waify British midwife (which pulls the whole fat-shaming episode down into that much more suckage): It’s the rice. It’s all carbs. VERY fattening. Have you had a chance to get in a pool for some laps?
Well excuse-ah-moi, Breakfast Tea, but I will have you know this pregnancy ain’t been a cake walk, literally or otherwise. My other two deliveries were pink, healthy babies with nary a concern but this third time at the rodeo has been nothing short of a nightmare. First there was the twin chapter, then the heart defects coming at me like hail, then the super rude halloween decorations and the unintentionally sad maternity costume that made me bawl for about three hours yesterday. What next, an ACME anvil and a falling piano?
Look, I’m all about being grateful for what I have and thankful for the little joys in life like being able to afford purdy fall pillows from the elite decor studio known as Home Goods ($14 for sheer beauty, can’t beat it with a stick!) I’ve also got two presh lady babies and another one on the way. I’ve got a man who actually, I am not exaggerating, fell back in his chair laughing at one of my jokes at a party last night. That’s love. I’m just saying, there have been a few heartaches and hiccups this go-round the baby track so LAY THE EFF OFF my weight, midwife. Moms gain. Big whoop. And the lecture about carbs? HA. I’ve seen dinner plates in England: unidentifiable meat with sides of potatoes, noodles and rice.
Of course in the office, I just squeaked out, “oh, rice is fattening” like when Ralphie tells Santa he wants a football for Christmas. Consider this my passive-aggressive vent to the universe that look, I know I weigh a metric ton and I’m not getting smaller any time soon. I know it. Now you know it. The midwife arguing with me about eight ounces of body weight at this point is like haggling over a few drops of water in the sea.
Maybe everyone-can’t-be-wrong? I also got fat-shamed by my toddler’s music teacher when everyone, parents included, were ordered up then down, up then down, up then down in true drill sergeant style. On the third (of ten!) ring-around-the-rosies, I stayed down. Sorry-not-sorry. I was just a lump down there on the floor. The teacher scolded me that she had made it to Zumba class earlier that morning, so surely I had the energy. Well pardonne, but I also got up at 5:15, did three loads of laundry, made and cleaned breakfast, got one kid off to school and managed to stuff a whole buffet of sheer grease poison down my gullet. HARD WORK, TEACHER LADY.
Is this how it is for actual overweight people their whole lives? Good lord, skinny people can be mean.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some carbo-loading to do.
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