Marshallows aren't kinda cute!
Gaining weight has never been my favourite thing.
And watching the numbers on the scale go up and up and up makes me nauseous (as if I need more of that!)
But, I have to admit there is some comfort in packing on the pounds. For a woman in her early thirties, pregnancy is probably one of the only socially acceptable occasions to bulk up.
"This is your time! Eat what you want! Enjoy it! everyone says, when I whine about getting double butt, flabby arms and thunder thighs. "You're not fat," they say. "You're pregnant!"
A rabid worker-outer and compulsive watcher of what I ate pre-pregnancy, just letting myself indulge feels sinful. And I just can't allow myself to gorge on chocolate or Dairy Queen or stuff my face with hamburgers.
But I've agreed to compromise. No more denying myself what I want. For the first time in my life I'm allowing myself to order poutine. And finish it. To buy fish and chips at Chippys and only share a little. Not much!
I feel liberated. I feel like shouting "woman power" from the top of a building or a light standard (if only I could climb!).
"And you seem in control," my old friend Daniel told me recently (he didn't know about the light standard idea). "You're not like holding a hoagie in one hand, a blackberry in the other hand and whining like nuts." (he may be commenting on other aspects of me as well, but anywho...)
Slowly, I'm coming to terms with my new shape - just as I may start to look like a marshmallow!
Bring it on!