I feel a bit elephantine this week. I huff. I puff. I can’t get off the floor unaided. I even held onto the back of Mr Chick’s jeans while he dragged me up a staircase at Wagaya Tapas the other day.
We laughed about it but I’m realising fast that pregnancy is increasingly about the loss of dignity – and the secrets you once held dear. Like how much you weigh. I used to make deals with the devil before weighing myself which was ALWAYS under the same conditions: a) post-loo, b) buck naked and c) Friday morning. Now I’m having to deal with the ridiculous prospect of a weigh-in whenever an authoritarian medico demands it and, as luck would have it, it’s always right after I have stuffed my face.
The How Porky Are You Today game is the latest in a long line of pregnancy tests I’ve endured that are super easy to fail. If you want to play, all you need is a scale, a disapproving midwife / GP / obstetrician, and your yellow baby card to record the evidence.
At 19 weeks, I was feeling decidedly smug about my 7kg gain. At nearly halfway, I figured if 15kg is a good overall gain, I’m on track. Yay! Not so fast, said my GP. “It’s too much for 19 weeks – you put on most weight in the last trimester,” she warned. Translation: Keep doing what you’re doing and at 40 weeks you will be the size of a small apartment block. This week the bastard scales told me I’d porked on another 4kg. My GP didn’t say anything, but the midwives (who also weighed me a few weeks ago) are super chilled. They’re like, ‘Ack, everyone’s different. You’re AOK sister!’ I frigging LOVE those midwives.
Of course, with such mixed messages from the medical establishment, I did what any self-respecting woman would: demanded that two of my dearest friends tell me honestly how fat I’ve become. Naturally, I chose the two people who have seen me in tight lycra more times than they probably ever wanted to: my gym buddy and my trainer. Both kindly
reported fibbed that I don’t look like I’ve stacked it on much at all, apart from the basketball out front and the gargantuan, ever-growing boobs. (I can’t believe I ever thought my pre-pregnancy double-Ds were big. I must have been insane.)
That said, I’m freaking out less than I thought I might. The bubba’s kicking along happily in his little watery home, which is the main thing – and I’m managing to remain relatively Zen about my size, which is easy so long as I avoid mirrors and all photos are taken from a great height.