Things They Don't Tell You About (a Second) Pregnancy #348,958

Generally speaking, I do not weigh myself at home. I don't particularly want to know how much I weigh—unless I've just given birth to a baby and a placenta and a whole lot of fluid and suddenly weigh a hell of a lot less than I did mere days before. And when I'm pregnant I REALLY don't want to know how much I weigh, especially when that number starts approaching my husband's weight, as it did at the nine-month mark of my first pregnancy.

I know I'm not alone in hating the ritual at the OB's office of weighing in first thing, even though the doctor always says, "Your weight gain looks great!" as if it's something to strive toward—which I suppose in a way, it is—but it's hard to imagine having to WORK at gaining weight while pregnant, what with all those doughnuts and glasses of whole milk and cubes of cheese begging to be consumed.

After my weigh-in at this month's appointment, the nurse exclaimed "Yay!" for no apparent reason which was really, really sweet of her because I weigh nearly as much as I did at the END of my last pregnancy. I was horrified, of course, because I still have THREE AND A HALF MONTHS OF WEIGHT-GAIN LEFT. And there's no WAY I'm going to be able to survive over three more months (or even hours) of pregnancy eating, like, nonfat yogurt and carrot sticks.

When I mentioned my horror to the nurse, she said cheerfully, "Yeah—that happens with second pregnancies. We just don't tell you beforehand!"

When I mentioned it to the doctor, she assured me that I probably wouldn't gain more than a few pounds more than I did last time and then added, "Anyway, it's out of your control." Which was pretty much the most reassuring thing she could have said. Like even if I were to only eat carrot sticks and nonfat yogurt, I would gain the same amount as with my current diet of bread, cheese, cereal, BLTs, pasta, homemade cookies, and almond-flavored steamed milk, which I always mean to ask to be 2% but almost always forget.

I have rolls of, uh, extra skin seemingly everywhere these days, like my body wants to be totally prepared JUST IN CASE there's a famine between now and April 21st. Body, I promise you: no famine! You don't need to store fat QUITE so vigorously. I promise the baby will get PLENTY to eat.

(I promise, too, to post a picture soon—even though I don't really want to. My excuses are many, not the least of which is that it's pitch dark until 8am and then again at 4pm and moderately dark in between, so there literally has not been a time with enough light for my husband to take an outdoor photo. And no WAY am I going to add the unflatteringness of a flashbulb to the situation. No fucking way.)


photo courtesy alvimann, morgueFile