Just after I had my Cesarean incision closed following the birth of my first child, my OBGYN—who was annoyingly charming, incredibly knowledgeable, and looked like she walked off the cover of a beauty pageant—leaned in close and said with a soft French accent, “Don’t worry. The incision is very low. You’ll be able to wear a bikini.”
I chuckled ironically, “Oh, thank goodness! What would I do without my bikini?” Out loud, I added, “Doc, you knew me before I got pregnant. I wasn’t wearing a bikini then, and I certainly won’t be wearing one now.”
When I first contemplated becoming pregnant, I was a size 22/24. Even without any medical expertise, I recognized that carrying a baby at that size wouldn’t be the healthiest choice. Determined, I committed to losing weight through exercise and joined Weight Watchers, successfully shedding 42 pounds. However, I was still classified as overweight at a size 16/18. Arriving at my first OB appointment, I was brimming with excitement about our growing family. The moment the OB stepped into the room, she stated, “Given your pre-pregnancy weight, we strongly recommend you gain no more than 10-15 pounds during your pregnancy.” And just like that, my excitement was dashed.
My body craved—no, CRAVED—brownie sundaes, and I allowed myself one each day. I’m talking about a brownie the size of a deck of cards, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The rest of the time, I tried to stick to my healthy regimen. Week after week, as the scale inched upward, my OB inquired about my diet. I was honest, sharing the nutritious meals I was eating, but also admitted to my daily indulgence. This petite OB, who could barely reach my abdomen during exams, suggested, “Why not just have a bite of a brownie?”
“Doc,” I replied, “I’m doing my best, but if I want a brownie, I’m going to have one.”
“Okay, but how about just 1/8th of a brownie?” she pressed.
Seriously? Who eats an eighth of a brownie?
During my second trimester of that chilly pregnancy, my husband and I took to mall walking. As we strolled, I window-shopped. When I passed Victoria’s Secret, the windows showcasing impossibly thin models, I caught my reflection in the glass. “HOLY COW!” I thought. “I’m enormous!” At five and a half months pregnant, I didn’t look like any expectant mother. Instead of a cute baby bump, I resembled a waddling trash bag filled with Jello. It wasn’t until I was seven months along that my pregnancy became apparent. The good news? I didn’t have to hide my pregnancy at work; to my coworkers, it just looked like I was indulging in too many late-night ice cream runs.
Fast forward to a sweltering August, and I was 40 weeks pregnant. As I waddled down the grocery store aisle preparing for a family picnic, every woman I encountered cast pitying glances at me. One brave soul approached and said, “Oh, Honey, you look so uncomfortable. I remember when I was pregnant with twins.”
Immediately, I crumpled to the floor (in the condiments aisle, no less), sobbing, “There’s only one baby in there! It’s not twins. I’m just fat, okay? I’m just fat and pregnant.” The poor woman fled, and my husband chased after her, apologizing profusely.
Okay, maybe I overreacted, but I was exhausted, in pain, and feeling gigantic. And—this is a big ‘and’—it was the second time that day someone had suggested I was having twins.
Despite all the warnings about the potential issues my weight could cause during pregnancy, I was fortunate. I watched two close friends, both beautiful and slender, struggle with infertility. Not me. I saw a fit colleague diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Not me. I witnessed acquaintances face high blood pressure and frightening pre-term births. Not me. Sure, I went eight days past my due date and ended up with Cesarean sections, but I recovered quickly and without complications.
My son arrived weighing a hefty 8 pounds and 15 ounces, with adorable rolls all over. The morning after my delivery, I was eager for my weigh-in (a rare moment of excitement to step on a scale). I thought I’d lose around 12 pounds with the baby, amniotic fluid, and placenta out of my body. But when I stepped on the scale, I was shocked to see I had gained two pounds. How was that even possible? I had completely forgotten about the IV fluids that had turned me into the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.
Ultimately, all three of my babies were chunky little bundles of joy, delightfully plump with rosy cheeks. You see, a bigger mama can mean bigger babies. And in many cases, that translates to them sleeping through the night sooner. All three of my little ones started sleeping through the night, twelve hours at a time, by nine weeks old. And while I still look a bit like I’m six months pregnant seven months after my third child, my adorable girl is peacefully sleeping in her crib, while I’m off to enjoy a full night’s rest.
And you know what? That feels way better than being skinny ever could.
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Summary:
Navigating pregnancy while being overweight can be a unique journey filled with challenges and surprises. Despite societal pressures and health warnings, personal experiences can vary widely. Ultimately, the joy of motherhood and the excitement of welcoming healthy babies can outweigh any concerns about body size.
Keyphrase: Expecting While Overweight
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