Now I’m just going to out and say it: I get fat when I’m pregnant. It doesn’t seem to matter if I spend my days cradling the porcelain god with all my might or eating a box of cupcakes a day. Bottom line is, I gain between 50-70 pounds with my babies.

Now, the first time I got pregnant, I told myself I’d breastfeed whatever pesky pounds were left once I dropped around 40 pounds at the hospital. I’d be back in my size 6’s within a couple of weeks!

Breastfeeding didn’t work out for us so well and it took nearly 3 years (admittedly 3 years wherein I didn’t exactly diet it off) to get back down to my prepregnancy weight. But I did get down there.

Breastfeeding DID work out with Alex after over nine months of puking my brains out and eating like an anorexic bird still piled 60 pounds onto my frame, so I told myself that the fat would melt off me!

Har-dee-har-fucking-har.

Between Weight Watchers and chasing Alex around the house, I managed to get within 15 pounds of my pregnancy weight before getting pregnant again (3 times, but who’s counting?).

Making a conscious effort not to flip the shit out over my weight and vowing to enjoy the shit out of each and every milkshake that passed through my yawning maw, I ignored the scale this time around. Until about 2 weeks ago when out of morbid curiosity, I stupidly trundled onto it.

I have been depressed ever since.

But, rather than sitting around and moping from room to room, sighing deeply and looking morose, I got off my ass today (to be fair, I’d been waiting on my 6 week post-partum visit to start this diet. Which happened at 8 weeks and on this past Friday) and rejoined Weight Watchers.

I have a long road and about 60-odd pounds to lose, but I’m giving myself an entire 2 years to do it rather than wean my daughter early (read: tomorrow). I’ll do my best for her and try my hardest not to kill myself that I cannot drop the LBS like they’re hot.

(ed note: they are NOT hot)

Breastfeeding and weight loss combined just don’t come easily to me like they do for some other people because I am speshul.

So goes nothing. 60+ pounds. 2 years. And a desire to look less like an Oompa-Loompa. Or John Wayne Gacy (post partum hair loss! SWEET!).

Anybody with me? Any good tips?

*Defying all laws of time and space, the last month of pregnancy is significantly longer than the previous 8.

*All of the issues (nausea, sleepiness, vomiting, utter bat-shit craziness) that plagued you during trimester 1 will rear their ugly head yet again. Only it’s less charming this time.

*(especially if it’s your first baby) You’ll imagine each and every twinge to be the Start Of Labor and probably end up in L/D more times than you’d think only to be told that you’re not even contracting.

*After you have this baby, you’ll agree that nothing feels like labor except for…well, labor.

*Ending up in L/D and being sent home will make you feel more embarrassed than you’d imagine would be a logical reaction.

*Speaking of “logical,” you’re not. And you haven’t been for a long time. You won’t know how nuts you are until after the wee one comes and you realize that you no longer have any urge to clean the toliet with a toothbrush.

*Leaking pee will become a new and disgusting way of life. And you’ll occasionally think it’s your bag of waters breaking. It’s probably not. But, take it from me, get that fucker checked out.

*If you’re like me, the hospital bag you pack will go largely untouched, so don’t freak out. They’ll usually give you free ickle bottles of shampoo and the lot. Use these and then THROW THEM AWAY. Sure, you’re in L/D or Mother/Baby, but it’s still a hospital. And hospitals = germies.

*You will finally tire of talking about this baby because all that you can think about is how ready you are for this to be over.

*The fears of labor will quickly be replaced by the fears of never having this damn baby.

*Having wee feet kicking your internal organs and trying desperately to seperate your ribs from your spinal cord is just as charming (and painful) as you imagine it will be.

*Did I mention how off the rocker you are? Because you TOTALLY are.

*Once you hit 37 weeks, people will check in on you daily with one annoying question: have you had that baby yet? You may very well want to smack them.

*People will start snickering when you walk into a room. Presumably because you now look like Grimace. Or a Weeble.

*You will start to moan and groan every time you have to change positions. And you will be acutely aware of how dumb you sound and how feeble you now are.

*Try as best as you can to rest and revel in the attention people are paying to you right now. Because once that baby gets here, swollen and stitched up vagina and all, no one will give a flying crap about you. Just the baby.

*Your breasts are going to develop a mind (and body!) of their own. They will be equally as painful now as they were back in old trimester 1.

What am I missing, party people?

Alex wanted me to take a moment and remind the world that everything is better with barbeque sauce. Guess he’s a momma’s boy after all.

And my PSA for the day is this: if the urge to eat an entire loaf of cinnamon bread overtakes you, it’s best not to fight it. Although probably not WITH barbeque sauce. That’s just too much.

Oh, and any tips out there on telling an 18 month old about a new baby coming? I haven’t found any books that aren’t stupid, and I could use some assvice.

Every now and again, when I duck into Mimi Maternity or Pea in a Pod I run into another pregnant lady (I know, who’d have thought it?). The sort of pregnant lady that makes me gnash my teeth and drool in her direction (she’s probably all, who let Crazy McFat Pants out of her cage?).

Because while I’ve looked about 6 months pregnant since day 4 or 5, my rolls getting rolls on top of even more love handles, my cellulite now covering me in some sort of bizarre pregnancy suit, my bra stretching and groaning uncomfortably against my saggy boobs, she serenely pats her tiny belly as she confides in the salesclerk that she’s due any day now.

I pray feverishly as I peer between the racks of clothing to find something that’s decidedly more flattering to the figure (what figure? I look like an olive on toothpicks) than what I’m wearing, that she’s about to divulge that this is her first baby or something, anything to make me feel better about myself and my ham-hock arms at 4 and a half months along, before she then mentions that this is her fifth baby.

She looks so put together, so firm and taut in her ass and thighs, obviously she hadn’t gained a pound over the recommended whatever it is you’re supposed to gain, while I? I look like I rolled out of bed, snapped on a bra, pulled my hair back and then went out in public. Which is precisely what I did.

And I am jealous. I’d love to be a svelte and sexy pregnant lady, gaining the tiniest amount of weight in my belly only rather than turning my ass into a shelf and my face into a moon pie. Ain’t gonna happen in THIS lifetime, sister.

When I had my first baby, I got hungry. I put my eatin’ pants on and I ate pretty much anything and everything I could get my grubby mitts on. I ate at least 2-3 times what I was supposed to eat, washing down every meal with a milkshake or three while I munched candy bars I hadn’t eaten in years.

Sure, I knew I was gaining weight, so I eventually just asked the nurse not to tell me what the scale said when I stepped onto it. There was no law saying I had to KNOW how fat I’d gotten, right? Besides, I’d just breastfeed it off later, I told myself.

Hardy-har-fucking-har.

Ben, who unbeknown to me at the time was autistic, refused to get anywhere near my massive mammeries once I popped him out, and after a spell of pumping he became a formula baby.

Fast forward 5 years. I’ve taken off the weight, however painfully, and am now pregnant with Alex. I have made precisely one promise to myself: I wasn’t going to become a fat ass when I got pregnant again.

Morning sickness, then hyperemesis struck, and even as I purged whatever molecules of food from my system, I watched horrified as the scale went up. Between 5-9 weeks, I gained 11 pounds. I ate nothing, threw up so hard that my nose was permanently bleeding and I gained weight.

Once I was able to hold down food again (around 18 weeks and 25 pounds heavier), I ate well. I ate so well that people couldn’t believe how fat I was getting. Egg whites, tofu, veggies, fruits. Small portions eaten often. And yet I found myself on the delivery table having gained 56 pounds. A mere 10 pounds lighter than when I’d had Ben.

(as an aside, it hurt me to no end that only The Daver believed me that I wasn’t secretly gorging upon hostess products and lard at night and while he was at work. Everyone else seemed to believe that I was lying for some reason, and was just ashamed of my weight gain. While I was TOTALLY ashamed, I’d never lie about something like that)

Oh well, I told myself, at least I’d breastfeed it off with this one. Alex was a champion nurser, nursed often and with gusto, and I knew I’d be back into my size 6’s in no time.

Go ahead, laugh away. I won’t blame you.

Turns out that no matter what LLL tells you, not EVERYONE loses weight while breastfeeding. Just wanted to be clear here, because I seriously wish like hell that anyone had told me this before I nearly killed myself trying to get this weight off.

So when I got pregnant with The Sausage, I made a vow to myself to eat what I want and enjoy it without feeling guilty about any weight gains I’ve had. My body does apparently like to pack on the pounds while pregnant, so why fight it? It’s not worth it to beat myself up over every single pound.

And so far? I’ve not gained an insane amount of weight for someone almost 18 weeks pregnant. Which shocks the shitballs out of me. Who knew that I just needed to let go and eat pretty much any and everything that I can find? My week’s menu reads just like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, and I’m loving every second of it.

Who the hell knew?

So dish. Tell me about YOUR pregnancy weight gain. Please tell me I’m not alone in reaching epic blimp-like proportions while pregnant. Or if I am, will you pass the ketchup and chocolate. Aunt Becky is ready for her 1st dinner.

When I got pregnant with Ben, I used it as an excuse to indulge in all of my favorite crappy foods. Cheese sticks, pizza, Steak -n- Shake, ice cream, McDonald’s, you name it, I ate it. And loved it.

In my defense, I was 20 and able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted anyway, so it wasn’t a stretch for me. What was a big surprise (to me anyway) was that I then gained about 70 odd pounds. I don’t really know the precise number because I eventually stopped looking at the scale go up when I’d go in for my weekly weigh-in’s torture sessions.

10 pounds of that was water weight (I was swollen like my pre-eclampsia sisters) because it was damn hot that summer, and 8 lbs was baby, but the rest? Fat. All fat.

For the first couple of months, I tried desperately to lose the weight: I joined a gym, ate better, you name it, I tried it. And the scale moved upwards again by about a pound. This was enough to throw me over the edge and I gave up. Eventually, my metabolism kicked in and I lost most of the pounds, and dieted away the rest of them.

Then my thyroid went wacky, but was undiagnosed, and again, I couldn’t lose the weight no matter how many hours I spent at the gym. In fact, the scale moved up again and I was beating my head against the wall trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Despite both of my parents having thyroid issues, it never dawned on me that I could have the same problem. Because I am brilliant.

By the time I got pregnant with Alex, several years later, my thyroid issues had been diagnosed (thank GOD I was suffering from an inability to get pregnant, or it would never have been picked up. Doctor’s don’t seem to be overly trusting of women who are “tired all the time” and “gain weight easily.” I’m altogether certain that my own doctor would have told me to “eat less” and “exercise more”–not bad advice, medically speaking, but I already WAS doing this) and I was down to what I weighed when I got pregnant with Ben.

Because I am (as previously mentioned) an idiot, I never thought to get an endocrinologist at this juncture, assuming that my OB would monitor this closely. Oh! how wrong I was, and Oh! how the pounds packed on no matter how often I was christening the porcelain god.

The thing is, when you’re either a) getting fatter or b) pregnant, people always assume it’s because you’re eating like a teenage boy. No matter how much you don’t eat or how well you do eat when you’re able to hold it down, people don’t believe you when you tell them what’s going on. They think you’re hitting up Krispy Kreme’s all day, every day. For example, when I was at one of my sicker points from about 6 to 9 weeks (I heart you hyperemesis! Can we be BFF?) I gained 11 pounds in 3 weeks.

Seriously.

I’m pretty sure that the only person who believed me was The Daver, because he knows that I wouldn’t lie about that stuff. If I was eating garbage, I’d have owned it. I have no reason to deny it to anyone else. I heart junk food, and would eat it more often if I could get away with it and still fit into my size 8’s. I loved him for that.

So again, after making a huge effort to eat well (although exercising was out of the question because at about week 10 into Alex’s pregnancy, my hips stopped, well, working and walking became excruciating) I found myself at the time of delivery at about exactly what I weighed with Ben, minus 10 or so pounds of water weight.

I resolved to breast feed those pounds off, just like La Leche League said I could! And nurse I did: 10, 12, 17, 20 hours a day, all while eating about 900 calories a day FROM DAY 1 POSTPARTUM. I joined a gym 6 weeks after he was born and went for at LEAST an hour a day 5 days a week. I wasn’t hungry, so I didn’t force myself to eat, and you can guess what happened to the scale, right? I gained 4 pounds.

I gained 4 pounds and my heart was shattered (to be fair, I had a bout of PPD issues that I was dealing with too and was sleeping very, very little.) I felt like a failure, like I was destined to be a fat chick for the rest of my life, and ended up crying my eyes out in the Gap when I went to buy non-elastic pants: I’d gone up 4 sizes since I last wore real pants.

All I wanted was some external validation from someone outside of my head to tell me that yeah, dude, this isn’t your fault, and I couldn’t seem to get anyone to tell me that.

My validation came many months later, in October of last year when I went into my OB’s office to have the PA look at my boob (not mastitis, it turns out, but a spider bite.) and she drew some labs to check my thyroid. Turns out where normal range is something like 0.4-2.0 (for people with previously diagnosed thyroid issues) and mine was….

….19.85

Um….yeah. No wonder I wasn’t doing well, even though I was on Weight Watchers.

Since then, I have been in titrated treatments and have finally found a decent dose for me (although I need a repeat blood draw soon) and have lost 21 of the pounds I’d gained, and that coupled with a 16 pound loss after Alex was born, means I’ve lost….simple math, Becky, you can DO it, 37 pounds since last March.

I hit a plateau in Weight Watchers in November, so I went off it in January (because why fucking bother?) and lost a couple more pounds.

Last week, after 2 weeks of going to the gym 3-4 times a week, I started back on Weight Watchers, telling myself that if I didn’t lose even a pound in 3 weeks, that I wasn’t going to bother. The scale had to move in the right direction if I was going to measure every damn thing I put in my mouth, right?

Today was the first day that I had to weigh in, and I wasn’t expecting much to happen. I’d been working so damn hard for so damn long to see results go in the wrong direction, and that’s just so fucking discouraging.

After months of no real progress, I have now lost 2 pounds. In a week.

What’s interesting to me right now is how much better that makes me feel. It’s such a minor change, really, in the grand scheme of things. It’s not like I lost 20 pounds in a week (although that might be cool, too) and it’s not like I’m not aware that the first weigh-in is typically the one where you lose the most.

It’d be one thing if I’d gained the weight the old fashioned way (eating my brains out) and I would say things like I did after I had Ben, “Damn those cheese fries we’re easier to put down than to take off!” and feel like at least I enjoyed the hell out of eating like shit.

Remember how fun it was, Ashley?

Maybe I can get the rest of this weight off before Alex’s 15th birthday, right?

37 lbs down, 17 to go.

Now if I could only tell my body to remove some of this booby fat, I’d be thrilled. My enormous breasticles seem to be my children’s gift to me, but I want to exchange them for a slightly smaller size now. They’re ridiculous.

————–

So what can buoy you out of the depths of despair and give you a sense that the Universe sometimes does really like you?

After a painful week of weaning Alex off of the juice (no, silly, not THAT kind of juice), it appears that I am finally victorious, because now, his appetite has returned with ridiculous force. The kid has always eaten like a champ without really being one of those hugely fat children often featured on Maury, having received the genetic gift of an awesome metabolism from his father, and food in my house is becoming more of an issue.

Primarily because the kid appears to be giving us a glimpse of life with a teenager. I literally cannot keep up with his eating schedule, and what’s worse is that many of the fuller foods I’d normally try and feed him are completely inedible for someone without teeth.

I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with some foods that he is able to eat that will keep him full for more than an hour at a time. You read that right: he’s eating the equivalent of what I eat for a meal every single hour that he’s awake (and I am thankful that it’s not overnight as well, because one of the last things I want to do at 3 AM is to feed my child a bowl of cheerios and milk.). I mean, I guess I could start covering everything he eats with a generous layer of butter and/or Crisco, but somehow with his genetic propensity toward heart disease in general, that seems like a poor decision.

Whole milk would be the obvious choice, but he won’t drink a drop of the stuff without chocolate syrup, and forget the breastmilk, he’s TOTALLY over it. Short of giving him his very own G-tube, I’m pretty much tapped out of high fat/high calorie foods that he’ll eat. Mainly because he’s EATEN IT ALL ALREADY.

While I am pleased that this is a food issue of a completely different color, and he’s eating more than a couple of dust bunnies and toenail clippings each day, I’m just trying to figure out how on Earth to leave the house without causing a fit when his blood sugar drops. Every hour. On the hour.

I guess it’s just time to pray to the God of Teeth that he suddenly pops a few out. I mean, shit, he’s old enough for ’em.

Alex ate at least three-quarters of a box of Macaroni and Cheese for lunch today, immediately after ingesting a container of yogurt, a granola bar, and a serving of pureed fruit. He ate so much that I needed a cigarette after watching him tear through it all.

When he was first born and nursed approximately 14 hours a day (I only wish I were exaggerating), I was convinced that the reason he had to eat so damn much was because my body wasn’t producing enough milk to sustain his frame. Little did I know that he was merely born with a metabolism I would kill for (much like his good old Dad).

It’s funny, because I used to hate people like myself, whose kids ate normal food without acting like it was laced with rat poison, because my darling firstborn ate so little that I often wondered how he gained weight at all.

And that’s one of those things that you place blame squarely on yourself, partially because you feel the all-too-familiar tug of Parental Guilt tapping you on the shoulder (none too gently), and partially because other people blame you for it. It’s amazing how quick to judge other people become when you have a Non-Eater for a child, like you alone are responsible for their shitty diet (and I swear on all that is holy that I eat more than saltines and oatmeal).

Save from paternity, all the variables are very similar between my kids, and who knows, maybe Ben didn’t want to eat because he felt nauseous knowing who his father was. Shit, I know that fact made ME skip a few meals.

It’s one of those funny things that has redeemed me time and again with Alex. Just knowing that I am not at fault (and never have been) for all of Ben’s “issues” has made the sleepless nights and hair pulling worth it’s weight in gold.

Now if you’ll excuse me, dear Internet, whom I love more than life itself, I must go save the cat from being eaten by the baby. Lunch was an hour and a half ago, and he’s HUNGRY again.

It appears as though my era of a lactating female is drawing slowly to an end. Alex has decided that the quicker food dispersal system is not, in fact, garnered by my breast but by regular food stuff. To say that he is underwhelmed by taking a bottle (which would be the easiest way to use up the approximately 2,308 gallons of frozen breast milk I currently am storing in my freezer) is a gross understatement. He hates the bottle with an intense passion, which I cannot blame him for.

Despite my well-documented conflicting feelings on breast feeding in general (it’s more of a scientific oddity to me. You mean they do THAT? WEIRD!), I had assumed that I would feel more saddened by this inevitability than I am. After all, Alex has kicked my ass so thoroughly with his craptastic sleep patterns that I am not sure if I will ever be strong and/or brave (or stupid enough, really) enough to try and have another one, and three kids seems like a ton of kids (not to mention the fact that I would have to buy another car and grow a couple of extra arms). Even if I do have another one, I am not positive if I would breastfeed again (at least for as long as I have with Alex), as I’m underwhelmed by having to be tethered to a child all day, every day.

Please don’t send the Breastfeeding Mafia after me. I have no problems whatsoever with people who breastfeed for years. It’s just not who I am. And you know what? Being a parent is a lot of not being able to be who I am.

Seriously, if I were alone in the house, I can all but assure you that I would not watch either Elmo’s World on repeat OR PBS Kids all day. Nor would I opt to listen to Raffi, have to remove all swear words from my vocabulary, or take 30 second showers while feverishly praying that my children are not eating each other.

Am I bitching about making these personal sacrifices for my children? No, not at all. It comes with the territory of being a parent, and I am accustomed to it, and rarely get on the cross about it. But to me, breastfeeding is just another one of those things that strips me of all of my me-ness, and aside from doing it for the first couple of months, which is a sacrifice I would probably make again for the health benefits, I’m not sure I’d be willing to do it all over again.

Sure, there are health benefits to the mother (apparently) like losing those pesky baby pounds that I was just positive I was going to melt away along with my milk, but oops! psych! not so much. Hell, without eating supplemental junk food, I find it next to impossible to eat all of the extra calories that are required for my metabolism not to shut down.

Some people are overweight because they eat too much, but I am overweight (currently) because I didn’t eat enough. I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE! (That always sends me into gales of laughter when I use this phrase. Maybe I should have shirts made that proclaim this. Then I’d be truly cool).

Until I stop breastfeeding, I have embarked on a new diet, one that doesn’t have me counting Points (but is still Weight Watchers), because I have no idea how many freaking calories I need anymore. It’s essentially a low fat, low sugar, low flour diet, and I’m finding it pretty easy to follow, thankfully. But it, of course, has one side effect that I’d never planned for: extreme flatulence.

That’s right, folks, I have now surpassed my husband, the former reigning King of All Farts, and have rightly claimed the Queen of The Rank Ass as my new title. Now I am the member of the family who can, in a single emission, clear an entire room with my suffocating farts. My new-found power is exhilarating, I am heady in my own strength, drunk on my own force…

Hey, where’d everyone go?

Today was our annual Breakfast with Santa, which also happened to fall on THE SAME DAY AS Daver’s company Christmas party (because having a day off in between would be too easy, I guess). We went to the Company Party last year, and I had a minor fit beforehand because, well, the dress I’d bought early on in my pregnancy was not fitting in the boob area.

I had a minor hormonal meltdown, and Daver, being the wonderful soul he is, whisked me off to buy something new about an hour before we had to leave. And then stopped at Krispy Kreme to buy donuts on the way home (this was more for him than me. Couvade, anyone?) and didn’t even mention it when I ate one (despite my whining about being fat).

I vowed to be sexxier and thinner this year, because, well, I am not currently harboring a metabolism-altering parasite. The Universe predictably laughed when I comforted myself by swearing to breastfeed off all those extra pounds from my ass (why my ass felt the need to be pregnant, too, is beyond me. Maybe it was jealous of all the attention fostered upon my belly.), and I have been silently hyperventilating about going to this Christmas party since about October, when it became readily apparent that I wasn’t going to be at my fighting weight this year.

A couple of weeks ago, while at Target, I picked up a pair of pants to wear to this (yes, the invite expressly said “cocktail attire” and I do know what that means, but hey, I was taking an hour and a half train ride to get there. I am not getting on the Metra in a dress), and promptly burst into tears in the fitting room. All of the shirts I grabbed didn’t fit. The pants fit fine, but their size depressed me.

I shakily located Dave and Alex (predictably in the video game aisle), and told them I wouldn’t be attending the party this year. My breathing was ragged and harsh, because I was so upset, that it probably sounded as though I’d taken a couple of pulls off the helium balloons.

It was later that day when I became completely ashamed of myself for feeling so incredibly insecure about how I looked, that I was telling Dave that I wouldn’t do one of the FEW things that he really wants me to do with him. HE doesn’t care that I am a few (read 23.5) pounds heavier. HE doesn’t care that I refused to wear a dress or make any real effort in my appearance tonight. All that he cared about was having me by his side.

And for all of my whining and worrying, it turned out just fine. No one turned me away for wearing pants. No one pointed, laughed, or made any comments whatsoever about how I looked tonight (no, although I was wearing pants, I was NOT wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt, like I’d wanted to. Even Aunt Becky has her limits for tackiness.). We were only able to stay a short time (babysitters are awesome, but cannot be forced to watch my ickle ones all night long), but instead of being relieved about being able to escape, I was sad that we couldn’t stay longer.

So, Dave, thank you for making me go with you tonight, when you were completely aware of how much I’d have rather stayed home in my pajamas WHERE IT WAS WARM AND DRY AND NOT SNOWING MOUNTAINS.

For the first several months of winter, here in the Midwest, where winter lasts until you blink and oops! it’s summer again (and every year I wonder why we don’t move to a more temperate climate as I chisel ice off the windshield of the car while trying not to cry out when the boogies in my nose freeze), I love it. The first snowfall of year is always a day of magic and wonderment for me, it makes me want to bake Christmas cookies and listen to Christmas music and build snowmen and whitewash The Daver. Well, I guess that MOST things make me want to whitewash Daver, not just the first snow of the year.

Today was the first day that we have gotten any snow, and I got that annoyingly gushy feeling in my heart as I suggested that maybe we could do some Christmas shopping or something festive to commemorate the day.

It was as those words slipped out of my gaping pie-hole that it dawned on me, highly unpleasantly: I don’t have a winter coat this year.

Before you start chastising me for not taking proper care of myself, let me assure you that I do, in fact, own at least 25 winter coats. My hallway closet is filled to the brim, bursting at the seems, even, with the products of being a Midwestern native for my whole life. I collect coats in the way that some women collect shoes (I have plenty of those, too, but it my shoes are not the point here, as they happen to fit just fine thankyouverymuch.).

I could remedy this situation post haste, should I choose. The stores are chock full of sassy winter coats this time of year, and no one would fault me for picking up a new one. Problem is, I’m stubborn and don’t want to buy a coat in a bigger size (think circus tents here) to drape my 26 pounds heavier frame (12.5 down, 26 to go!).

It’s depressing enough that I STILL have to wear my maternity clothes (again with the stubborness), and/or shirts with a V-neck to allow my wee one access without having to pull my shirt completely up in public (I swear, I am NEVER even THINKING about wearing anything v-neck EVER AGAIN after I quit nursing. Those shirts will be burned along with my hideous nursing bras when Alex is weaned), thereby rendering those around me to have to throw up in their soup.

But having to pull out the damn maternity coat is just breaking my ickle heart today. It’s a nice enough coat, for sure, although since it’s a trench coat, it gave me a decidely Grimace-like (or Weeble, think Weebles) appearence when I was 9 months pregnant. Now, thankfully, Alex is no longer residing on my person (although he’d probably like that better. There are days when I’m pretty sure if he could find the entryway, he’d happily climb back inside), so the belly is gone which = no Weeble, but the boobs, HOLY SHIT ARE THEY CRAZY HUGE.

Oh well, I suppose it’s not the end of the world. At least the coat’ll fit.