14 Weeks, 2 Days

Oh, you were so good, so GOOD, the other night!
You wanted that milkshake, huh? 
I thought you would.

I did feel you, twice, right after I shut down my laptop.
And I ordered your drink of choice, made special for you by He Who Never Complains About Our Annoying Snack Requests.

Well, he rarely complains.
He has inquired a time or two why I can't just ask for a bag of chips or an apple, something simple like that.
Everything I (you) want needs to be steamed or sliced or mixed.

We just like being high maintenance is all.
Can't he understand that?
(He does--he sighs and acts like he hates it but he doesn't.  Our high maintenance does not involve Gucci handbags or ridiculously priced shoes.  He appreciates that.  So he lets all else slide.  And we get  LOTS of milkshakes!)

I wanted to mention something I forgot the other night.
I said I'd gained nine pounds, right?
Which isn't unusual for me--I'm not, contrary to popular belief, one of "those girls" who only gains like 12 pounds in her pregnancy.
I find that to be...disturbingly Stepford Wife-ish.

Anyway, I can't say for certain what my starting weight was so I'm completely guessing by what the scale says now.  I think I had a wee bit of a Mommy Crack issue this past summer (compliments of Panera) that led to a slight "baby got back" five pounds or so.
Whatever.
I knew I was going to get pregnant anyway so what was the point in denying myself those delicious whipped creamy calories???

The point of this is to say that yes, I could be a food freakazoid and monitor every thing that passes my mouth and I could work out seven days a week in order to keep those pounds down.
I know mamas like this and I don't much care to emulate them.
To each his own I say, but it's not for me.
I'm not saying I'm not health conscious or I that enjoy myself a little pig-a-thon for ten months; I don't.
I just don't do the other either.

I gain around 35 pounds every time and it does not matter if I eat milkshakes or carrot sticks.
It's just my weight gain.
And I'm okay with that--now, were it 95 pounds, I'd be keeping my mouth shut over here but I'm within the expected weight gain range.
The HIGH end but WHO CARES, right?

Here's what sucks though.
I gained nine pounds in three and a half months.
You weigh an OUNCE.

What. The. Hell.

You weigh an ounce? 
An ounce?? 
How is that even measurable?  And where in the (beeeeeep!) are these nine pounds of mine? 

I ask that like I have no idea where, isn't that funny?

Oh, I know where they are and some of them I don't mind.
I've mentioned my fantastic..um...upgrades, yes?
Those can stay.
Those can actually stay forever.

But the rest?

Well, it's fun temporarily.
I'll leave it at that.
I do kind of enjoy yanking on (struggling into) yoga pants and truly droppin' it low because now I've got something to drop! 
I could knock a Little through a wall with one swift swing of my hips! 

So I do have fun with it. 
And at the same time, I stare at my skinny girl jeans with palpable longing.
I don't think any woman just loooooves the additional poundage. 
I don't love it.  I don't love it at all.
But I try not to let it get in my way of enjoying this part of life. 
And whenever I bemoan about a weight-related something to your daddy, do you know what he says?
"I love it."

Like, "My butt is growing as fast as my belly."
"I love it."
"My boobs are taking over my entire chest.  They're going to be bigger than the baby's whole head.  I'm going to smother the baby.  Death by boob."
"I love it."
"MY GOD, do I have CANKLES???"
"I love it."

Does he mean it?
I honestly don't know.
Probably not. 
But he makes me feel like he does and that's what's important. 

And this is not to say, despite all that, that near the end of my pregnancy, I will not sit directly in front of a large, large mirror and weep about the state of my exploding self.  And when he tries to tell me that he loves the way I look, I will turn on him viciously and accuse him of lying through his teeth. 
Months nine and ten are wicked on self-esteem, let me tell you. 
But then...it's over.
And every day after that, I get a bit of my old self back.  Sure, my body will never be perfect.  I'm not interested in a perfect body though.  I lack that vanity at this point in my life and sure as hell lack the drive to get it that way.  I just want to be healthy and strong and fit, with as little effort put into that as possible :) 
I just, really, want to return to ME.

So all I can say is, you better come out STARVING because I need you to snap this body back into shape when it's all over.  I'm not going to be super thrilled if I suddenly find myself out running FOR FUN whilst dripping sweat all over the place in order to take back my bod. 

Anyway, I just want to tell four-inch-sized-you (four inches!  When we saw you three weeks ago, you were HALF an inch long!) that I'm going to hang in there with you but if you could actually be a pound right now instead of an ounce, I'd feel a LOT better about this situation.

An ounce.
Good grief, child...

Loving you already,
Mama