Big Girl

on my 40some pound pregnancy weight gain lol

** TW weight/body image. I’m officially FULL TERM so let’s celebrate with a little laughter here, ok? My body hurts.

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A lifetime of lanky scrubs burdened me with useless knowledge, like the fact that 175 lbs is a perfectly normal weight for a six-foot adult male with a gambling problem or a wandering eye.

Suppose you could say I have a wandering eye: Once I hit 150 lbs during pregnancy, I looked anywhere but the scale when they weighed me at appointments, wrote origin stories for each water stain on the ceiling (wherein I am Gru and they are my minions, if you needed proof of the cymbal-banging monkey toy that controls my brain). I was miserable enough from a growing list of tangible afflictions. No way was I surrendering my last modicum of peace to a number.

I was still looking decent, anyway. My mother-in-law was so happy to tell me, “you can’t even tell, it’s just a basketball!” There was a time when I would’ve said ball is life. But then a basketball became a boulder became an asteroid headed straight for my identity as a Fit Attractive Woman.

I can barely watch the Knicks these days; you can imagine my enthusiasm for the mirror. And so grew this cracked out fantasy of me with a hammer and a half-shaved head, buck naked, belly engorged with life, shattering my reflection into sparkly bits and pieces on the hardwood floors. That oughta induce labor, right? An early introduction to motherhood and the fractured self—an archetype most of us know against our will.

It only took a few weeks for my belly to grow past the point of looking away. Not that anyone would let me. I blew up and suddenly, people got the impression that I’m a good sport who loves a friendly jab. Like thanks but I actually cry even easier now, if you can believe it!

“You sure you’re not having twins?” my husband's grandma joked at my shower. (We’re beefing now.)

“There she is, the great pumpkin!” exclaimed my father. (We’re beefing always.)

“Get the strap,” I thought. (On some 50 Cent shit.)

Well, in an uncharacteristic burst of bravery aka the moment uncertainty became intolerable, I stepped on the scale at my 36-week appointment and looked down. I mean, I bowed my head with INTENTION at that evil altar. And that’s when the asteroid hit. That’s when I saw 174 lbs and my murderous rage shifted inward. Everyone was right/the jabs were fair/all beef was squashed. For a moment, I considered my high school’s wrestling team and tried to guess my opponent. Dylan Dailey. It had to be Dylan Dailey. Penn State red shirt. I simply can’t win.

“I can’t wait to call my daughter a big girl!” my husband said in the car on the way home. So cute! So pure! “Me toooooo,” I squealed. She just weighed in at 6 lbs 9 oz, after all. Already a big girl if you consider that I was born 7 lbs 1 oz on my due date. But all I could think was that the real Big Girl here… was me. Funny how that phrase becomes derogatory after like, age seven. Now a mere 25 lbs separate my 6’ 3 husband and I—he, a planet and I, his moon, round and made of cheese. Specifically, 2 AM Babybels.

As Big Girl, my ambitions often exceed my reality. On the morning of our wedding anniversary, my husband gifted me an engraved gold band. I couldn’t get it on my new Jimmy Dean finger. Wiggling and yanking away, I felt like one of those sad moms trying on her old prom dress, all “IT’LL ZIP, KEEP TRYING!!!” Well, once I got that ring over the knuckle, the sausage burst from its casing. I was screaming like I’ve never screamed. I thought this had to be affecting the baby somehow—cutting off her blood supply because Big Girl needs affirmation that SOMETHING on her body is still delicate. We tried every method YouTube had to offer until eventually, we had to cut the ring off.

That night I went to bed stiff-limbed and over it. I had on two pairs of compression socks for Restless Leg Syndrome and a wrist splint on each hand for Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, splayed out like the daughter of the Vitruvian man and Danny DeVito. You jog around the neighborhood, ponytail swinging, high on your perfect health thinking “syndromes” and “disorders” are the language of other until your body puffs up with fluids and you’re 174 lbs and how can you be creating LIFE when you feel this DEAD? I fell asleep for all of five minutes before I woke up gasping for air, my mouth filled with vomit. Acid reflux. Perhaps death is more glamorous.

Babygirl, you are so evicted.

work diva !