The Weighting Game

18 weeks

I was a fat kid. Ok, I wasn’t *the* fat kid, but I was a larger-than-average-sized elementary school kid to say the least. I was awkward and chunky and clumsy. I was not an athlete. I was the bookish one with the always sparkling personality and the biting sense of humor that made me the buddy and best friend to the beautiful girls and the popular boys who wanted a laugh or someone to do their homework. I was Jeanine Garofalo in, well, every movie she’s ever been in.

As you might imagine, middle school was not a kinder time.

And then, as it often does, the move into high school and the leaving behind of 13 was life altering. I was in marching band and played volleyball and was in show choir. I was dancing or marching or working out most of the time. My metabolism decided to start working like a teenagers’ does. And I slimmed down an enormous amount (pun intended). But never really to the point that I was skinny. I was a big girl. Taller than most. Denser than most. Muscular and broad shouldered and, well, just heavy.

One of my most vivid memories of that time was going into the doctor for my “I’m going into high school” physical. He actually reweighed me three times (first the check in nurse…then the follow up nurse because she thought my chart was wrong…and then the doctor because he was convinced that the numbers had been inverted by the other two before him.) “There’s no way you actually weigh THAT!” he exclaimed. And all my hard work—my sliming down—my muscle tone suddenly didn’t make any difference to me. Even the doctor couldn’t believe how heavy I was.

It didn’t help, of course, that my best friends at that time (actually from middle school onward in my life) were all the star athletes; the homecoming queens; the cheerleaders and dance team. And I was, well, not them. Surrounded by the beautiful people but never really counted amongst them.

I’ve never been comfortable with my size. I’ve gone up and down for as long as I remember. I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t on a diet. And I’ve done every diet on the planet—some really healthy, some really not. I had moments of sheer depression because I had gained so much that no clothes would fit me in the major department stores anymore, and times when I was so frustrated that I had lost so much weight that I had no clothes that fit and didn’t have money enough to replace them. But even when I was at my very very skinniest (and pictures of me look like I’m anorexic and disgusting with bones sticking out in all the wrong places and clothes literally hanging off of me) by the medical books’ definitions, I was still considered overweight, bordering on obese.

I don’t feel like my story is unique in any way at all. In fact, I would wager most women could sing their own variation on this theme. Never satisfied. Always too big or small. Always wanting to look some other way. Not feeling comfortable in your skin. Always getting conflicting messages. I’m sad to say that I think that’s sorta how girls grow up. And it’s definitely true of my junior high and high school and college years.

What I find interesting about all this right now is that being pregnant skews your perception of size and shape even further-- everything you ever thought you knew about weight gain and being healthy fly right out the window.

It’s funny that to me though the conflicting messages you get about your weight and weight gain when you’re pregnant really aren’t all that different than when you aren’t.

First, you get these: “Eat what you crave—it’s what the baby needs! (baby needs Ben and Jerry’s an awful lot, apparently….) “You’re eating for two! Go for it!” (or six?) “It’s the first time your whole life that no one will judge your size.” (That one’s just a boldface lie…)

Of course, then there’s the rest of the world.

“You must eat healthy all time!” (good luck with that, by the way…) “You shouldn’t gain too much weight or you’ll be big forever!” (Um, I think that ship sailed…) “You should be exercising every day to keep yourself fit.” (Yes, let me leave my 9 hour a day job, drive home an hour and take my unbelievably swollen feet and stuff them into some tennies for a nice long jog.)

On the first day of our “pregnancy orientation” I was told by a women that weighed approximately 100 pounds that I should really try not to gain more than about 15 pounds with the pregnancy since “you’re already a bigger women.” And then she laughed and talked about how she herself gained 60 pounds but was able to take it all off. I hate her.

I have friends right now that are tiny who are pregnant and gaining adorable little 7 pound basketballs right in the middle of their bellies. By way of contrast, I myself have already put on what appears to be a whiskey barrel that extends from my boobs to my butt (additionally, it’s possible that my thighs are also giving birth as it appears that they too have put on quite a bit of weight. Wouldn’t that be a medical miracle?)

Last week, J and I went in for a regular OB appointment. It had been six weeks since the last one. And just like with my regular doctor’s appointments, the only part that brought me anxiety was coming in and stepping on the scale. (True story—J comes with me to all my appointments (bless him) and has seen the doctors basically do every gynecological exam in existence and violate me twelve ways to Sunday. This, he watches. I still make him look away when I step on the scale. Old habits die hard I guess.)

I had quadrupled in belly size since my lat appointment and was silently losing my mind about what the scale would say and how chastised I would be for this unholy number, even though I had been eating pretty healthy, not really overindulging, and walking a couple miles every few days with J in the evenings.

I had gained a whole 1.6 pounds. Whew! Only 1.6 pounds. (Wait…Whew? Shouldn’t I be excited about the weight gain this time?)

Feeling relatively good about this news (small gain that’s probably almost all legit baby and not chips and salsa) I went into my appointment feeling strong. Got a good check up. Asked some good questions. Felt like things were going well. And then came the question.

“Have you felt the baby kick yet?”

“Not kick, really. Lots of flutters and movements and weird aches that sorta feel like motion. But nothing I would identify as actual kicks.”

“Well, for you it will probably take a little longer to feel something, given your, um, extra padding.”

My what?

“Now, notice I didn’t say fat. I said ‘a little extra padding.’ I’m not calling you fat. Just that you have extra padding.”

Ok, I’m *pretty* sure that pointing out three times to me that you are NOT calling me fat, but that you are instead choosing a cute little substitute-for-fat phrase, actually counts as calling me fat. Thanks for saving my ego with your clever wordplay there lady.

And in the end, I left the appointment feeling a little bit defeated.

I’m not so vain as to diet during my pregnancy. I eat what I want, when I want. I haven’t had a ton of craving yet, so I don’t feel like I overindulge in one thing or the other. If I’m hungry and find something that tastes good, I eat it like it’s my job (that’s actually been the bigger problem than cravings and overindulgences—not much sounds good to me these days other than orange juice and grilled cheese sandwiches.) J and I walk a couple miles after work a couple nights a week. That’s getting ever-so-slightly harder, but I’m glad we do it. It helps me mentally.

But even so, every time I hear someone say “eat as much as you want! It’s the one time in your life you can do it!” it still has the opposite effect on me, and I shy away from the second cookie or the French fries or the milk shake. Because I know that as per my normal, non-pregnant life, the weight gaining game has a different set of rules for us big girls with extra padding. And pregnant or not, I don’t think that those rules change.

So pass the celery sticks already, would ya? A girl’s gotta eat something.