The Fat Truth About Stupid Comments

The number on the scale is starting to rise, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. I think it would be one thing if I knew for sure it was just the baby, but I’m not. I have a sneaking suspicion my complete lack of exercise and lifelong obsession with chips and queso may be an important part of the equation. Every day I get up and say, “Today’s the day! Today’s the day I’m going to get back into my pre-pregnancy walking routine.” And then there is inevitably a great reason not to. The weather is one degree too cold. The wind is blowing a little too fast. I’m already clean and there wouldn’t be enough time for me to shower again before ____________. I’m nauseous. I’m tired. I might have to pee and there aren’t any bathrooms on the trail. You know, the normal excuses.

I always envisioned myself as one of those annoyingly happy, beautifully pregnant people. I saw myself cheering at each gained pound and gliding past onlookers in gloriously snug little maternity outfits that would showcase my growing bump and otherwise trim body. I imagined I would exercise constantly and feel inspired to eat only the healthiest of foods because after all, I would only want the absolute best for my child.


Most days I’m too uninspired to even change out of my glasses into my contacts, and the only gliding I’ve done is into the next Mexican food restaurant to devour today’s version of cheese and carbs. Sure, I eat mostly organic at home, and we prepare lots of lovely smoothies and healthy green juices and beautiful fresh veggie medleys. But it’s not these meals that I’m thinking is contributing to my expanding ass. I’m a little more concerned about all the meals in between. Do you really think Trudy’s or Vivo or Tacodeli or Torchy’s or Freebirds or Maudie’s (yes, these are only a few of my latest meal-suppliers) are bending over backwards to make sure my baby has only the safest, freshest ingredients?

Breathe Kayla. This is what I tell myself. Take it easy on yourself. You are doing the best you can. And one bad meal out of three in a day isn’t the end of the world. But I guess I just didn’t bargain for how incredibly confusing it would feel to watch the scale go up, up, up. I’m a woman damnit! I’m used to removing every last piece of clothing that could possibly weigh even an ounce, holding my breath, gingerly stepping on the scale, and then praying that it will be down, down, down from yesterday.

And maybe I should caution…I’m really not in the mood for criticism, okay? I don’t think I’ve done enough prefacing in my heightened hormonal state. Yes, I’m sharing this experience because that’s what I do. And yes, oftentimes maybe it seems as though I’m looking for feedback because sometimes I am. Well, I’m not. Take a few notes from my husband. Just smile and pat me on the back and tell me how wonderful I am and how great I’m doing. Okay? Got it?

And since this is kind of heading towards rant, please let me offer another piece of advice. STOP TELLING PREGNANT WOMEN YOUR HORRIBLE BIRTH STORIES! Did you hear me? What in the world makes people feel the need to do this? If I hear about one more dead baby just weeks prior to birth or one more botched epidural (not having one of those, people!) or one more horrible birth defect, I think I’m literally going to unload every curse word I know on that next unsuspecting person to open their mouth. Would you go up to a person who you know has cancer and tell them about your dead relative who painfully, horribly died from the disease? No, you wouldn’t. Then why on earth do you feel it’s your God-given duty to tell me about your (or your friend’s or your sister’s or your sister’s cousin’s friend’s) AWFUL birth story?! Seriously? Seriously? Has everyone lost their ever-loving minds? Because that’s what it feels like most days.

Well, I feel much better.

I can’t tell if my tolerance for people has gone down or if everyone is just in an increased state of crazy around pregnant women. Either way, I’m encouraging the counting rule. You know, the one where you have a thought, count to five, check and see if it’s still a good thought, and then decide if you want to open your mouth or not. I’m thinking we could save a lot of awkward moments for all of us. And my baby has ears now, okay? It can hear the strings of expletives mommy is unloading. So you’re really doing it for my baby.

Well, for a post that was supposed to be about my musings on this whole weight gain thing, we took quite the turn, huh? Welcome to pregnancy! The ultimate case of where you started is never where you end up. Kind of like how whiskey and great sex equals one night of amnesia of decision making and turns into a life-long responsibility…I mean, a little bundle of joy.  ;)

What would I be if not for my sense of humor?

Shamu, signing out.