Every day I say I’m going to start eating perfectly for my pregnancy. I start out pretty well. This morning, I had an English muffin with scrambled egg and water to drink for breakfast (but I also drank some coffee with chocolate soy milk because V woke us up at 5:30). My school takes a “nutrition break” around 10:00, but if you saw what they sell for the kids to eat, you’d demand they change the name to “junk break.” I, myself, snacked on a bran muffin and blueberry yogurt. For lunch, I ate a Healthy Choice Pasta Primavera dish with lots of vegetables and finished with an orange. Oh, how I wanted a Coca Cola, but I drank water instead.
When I got home from work, however, the leftover half-priced Valentine’s Day chocolate called to me. At first, I turned my head in disgust and announced, “I will have none of ye!” I think I even said “ye.” But when grouchy toddler demanded to watch yet ANOTHER episode of “The Wonder Pets” as she chewed on her cold teething toy, and she refused to let me leave her side (and by “refused” I mean she burst into hysterical tears if I even leaned forward like I MIGHT get up), I soothed my frustration and boredom with “fun sized” chocolate.
Now it’s after nine p.m. and all I want to do is eat. I want to raid the fridge and gobble down everything I find. I also want to fit into my clothes. I still cling to the fantasy that the only things that will grow are my boobs and my belly.
I used to have a friend who was a size zero. When she became pregnant, she didn’t gain very much weight. Her belly grew, of course, but the rest of her looked emaciated. In fact, I believe that she ultimately lost weight during the pregnancy, because she gained 17 pounds but had an 8 pound plus baby. Surely the baby plus amniotic fluid, breast swelling, placenta, and increased blood volume was more than 17 pounds! She never purchased maternity clothes because, and I quote her exactly here, “Maternity clothes are for pigs.” In her ninth month, I had lunch with her, and there was another pregnant woman eating at the next table. Her baby daddy commented that the other pregnant woman kept looking over at our table. “That’s because she looks like a whale and I look amazing,” was her explanation.
Remember how I said I “used to” have a friend… Exactly.
Still, I was friends with her for a reason. I’m used to this kind of criticism in my family of origin. Thin = good, fat = bad. And pregnancy counts as “fat.” I’m constantly at war in my head with myself. I’ve gained 8 pounds during this pregnancy, and I’m 21 weeks along. My goal is to gain the recommended 20-30 pounds, but not more. Not 50, like last time. It’s a huge adjustment, watching the scale go back up after a year and a half of watching it creep down, millimeter by painful millimeter.
And now that I’ve written a blog entry like I promised myself, I’m going to EAT!
I guess we all know who’s winning the “war” here.