I have nothing clever for this. I just keep sticking out more, and my love handles keep getting thicker.
I know the old wives’ tales aren’t necessarily to be believed, but some of them have been true with both of my pregnancies. I want salt. Always. All the time. I’m carrying like that - low, very round, straight out.
OH MY GOSH BEFORE I FORGET.
We have a name. Nine weeks to go and we finally have a name.
Ready for it?
OMG I know, right?!
Also, I am currently the weight at which I delivered Logan. Nine weeks before my due date. So, though I know it’s totally normal, expected, healthy (I haven’t yet hit a 25-pound gain, so there’s still some jiggle room in the next two months. See what I did there? I made a funny.), etc, with your second child to gain more…I’m not exactly thrilled to be seeing the numbers on the midwife’s scale that I am. I mean, come on, I looked like this at 5 weeks pregnant:
Yes, I love my child, and nourishing him, and growing him within my being is miraculous, and most of the time I even love being pregnant. But vanity wins sometimes, and I’ll look at my hips and my thighs and my upper arms, and I just think, Wow…I can’t wait to have this baby and get back in shape.
Obviously it’s not helping that I have to be on my butt in class ten hours a week, and I have less energy and time to actually move around and stay maybe a little in shape with this pregnancy. Not to mention, I’m three years older, and as a nursing school friend told me, “Your body’s been down this road before.” Meaning the hormones tell my body, “DUDE STOCK UP ON THE CALORIES, STORE THEM EVERYWHERE, BUT MOSTLY THE ASS AND THIGHS, SHE’LL TOTALLY LOVE THAT.” and seriously OMG DID I JUST FIND A STRETCH MARK OVER MY BELLY BUTTON?! For real, body?!
And then I end up feeling like a whale (while yes, I know, my weight and weight gain are absolutely healthy and whatnot, but part of my brain won’t believe that), and I try desperately not to spiral into self-loathing that ends with me sitting on my couch, crying, surrounded by Fun Dip wrappers, while I watch Sesame Street or Caillou, because that’s the channel the TV was on, and I don’t have the energy to get up and find the remote to change it.
On the home front, I think we’re moving soon, which will be a real experience at about 36 weeks pregnant. Though Andy has already committed to doing all the heavy lifting, and basically, to move everything but my clothes. You know, because he’s manly like that. It’s hot and I feel all cared for, and other mushy stuff.
Also, after tomorrow, I have a full week off school for Thanksgiving, which, THANK GOODNESS for that, because it’s going to save my sanity. Then two weeks of clinicals and classes, then one week of final exams.
After that, I can breathe for a while. And become a mom again. The mom of two boys. Two boys. It’s crazy, and I’m actually getting used to it. I think maybe I can do this.
Of course, that’s today’s feeling.