Until I found that at this point, I have gained a total of eight pounds which doesn't bode well with my original plan. Eight pounds at nineteen plus weeks is completely healthy, of course. I'm exactly where I should be right now. But for whatever reason, watching that scale move past the 150 mark and I'm suddenly all weird and self-conscious
Last night at my film-meeting my executive producer eyed me as I walked in the door. I hadn't been to a meeting in almost a month because I was out of town and apparently my physique had noticeably changed.
"You look... different," he said.
"Yeah. I'm getting more pregnanter. Maybe that's why."
"Oh, shit! You're pregnant! I totally forgot. For a minute I just thought you put on fifteen pounds!"
Fifteen? Do I look like I put on fifteen pounds? Really? No! It's eight! It's EIGHT!
Now this is LA, where people NOTICE when you do so much as clip your nails, so I wasn't really offended. Nah. Just horrified. I took my seat behind the dozen or so actors clutching their scripts, highlighting their lines, crossing and uncrossing their stick legs.
I covered mine with my purse.
I've always been very self-conscious about my looks. I'm a woman after all and I've lived all my life surrounded by beautiful people. Skinny people. Half of my graduating class went on to model and the rest might as well have. One of my first loves graduated from bagging groceries at Ralphs to modeling for Versace and I never was able to get over the fact that he was far too beautiful to be with me. When I broke up with him everyone thought I was crazy. I was too insecure to every fully explain why it would never work out between us. He was completely out of my league. His beauty made me feel invisible. And invisibility was not a sacrifice I was willing to make.
I'm very conscious of the fact that last pregnancy I gained a lot of weight. A lot. I was 203 pounds when Archer was born and I have the photos to prove it.
Here I am aprox 190 pounds, three days after Archer was born. (I lost thirteen pounds the day I gave birth.)
I worked my ass off to lose those sixty pounds and yes, I'm damn fucking proud. That shit was not easy to do and I really don't want to have to go through the 6am-wake-up- after-three-hours-of-sleep-to-hike-next-to-size-0-celebrities thing again. That was hell.
This time around, I do have restraint. I'm sticking mainly to veggies and fish and tofu and, okay, bagels and cream cheese for breakfast (I'm a sucker for veggie cream cheese, what can I say?) and I've stayed away from sweets and ice-cream sans my two days a week of allotted after-dinner-sweets. My cravings have been pretty limited to spinach and goat cheese and, well, the bagels, so I've been lucky as far as that's concerned. Last pregnancy all I wanted was mud pie and baked potatoes which... Hi! Not a low-calorie diet.
"But I'm eating for two!" I'd say.
But, uh, a ten ounce fetus does not need QUITE as much food as a grown person. I mean... right?
I realize the probability of this pregnancy is that I will put on some weight because (duh!) that's what happens when you're pregnant. And, yes, I have come to terms with the fact that my nose will likely swell and my chin will become plural. And I keep reminding myself that that's okay. That's part of what it means to be pregnant. And of course I'm willing to gain the weight. (Of course!)
But that doesn't change the fact that a tipping scale is something I am unable to celebrate, even if it means a growing baby, a healthy pregnancy.
And that scares the shit out of me.