New blog about I refuse to look at the scale when I’m pregnant and here’s why
During my previous three pregnancies, I gained around 30 pounds each time.
It felt like 60.
Or maybe I feared it would be 60.
Truthfully, I always worry about gaining too much when I’m pregnant. Because how my body evolves while carrying a baby can feel so out-of-control.
Like, if all I can eat is a stack of buttery, syrupy pancakes and a side of salty tortilla chips, well, then, so be it. If I can’t take my dog on 3-mile walks every day because I have to pee every 4 blocks, then that’s how it is.
I never want to relinquish control, or gain excess weight. It just happens. Not that 30 pounds is too much, but I’m pretty sure back fat isn’t mandatory for a healthy baby.
At the end of a pregnancy, that number on the scale is always the culmination of the pieces of cheesecake I ate, because um, I wanted to, as well as every salad I skipped, because the mere thought of lettuce made my stomach churn. That final number on the scale represents the times I napped instead of exercising.
If I let it, that number can come to symbolize failure. My failure to have the perfect pregnancy I’d hoped for.
All of that is what’s behind my outright refusal to look at the scale now that I am having a fourth baby.
At my first prenatal appointment, I averted my eyes when the nurse weighed me.
After I removed my shoes.
I wanted to take off my earrings à la Kate in This Is Us. But I exercised some self control so I didn’t make a fool out of myself.
Turns out I’d gained just a few pounds, which makes sense since I hadn’t been feeling well, and wasn’t working out as intensely as usual.
Still, from that point on, I swore I would tell the nurse at every appointment that when it comes to the number on the scale I just don’t want to know.
Ultimately, I don’t want that number to change how I feel about myself. Because despite the extra chips and occasional fries I eat if I’m too nauseous to have a real dinner, I’m proud of myself for making it through each day. I’m a pregnant mom of three for heaven’s sake!
Go me! Go every pregnant mom out there! We are doing our best, right? We aren’t perfect. We aren’t pro-athletes or supermodels. We’re humans, growing humans.
So, the last thing I want to do is allow a few pounds to bring me down. Or eventually 15, then 20, then 30 pounds (or more!).
Which I know I need to gain for my baby, but who can honestly say this process is easy? That it is a cake walk (mmm, cake) to watch your tummy expand daily? That you don’t miss your old body once in a while? That your swelling feet, and ballooning boobs never make you feel about as sexy as a Sumo wrestler?
I don’t know; maybe you aren’t affected by that number on the scale. Perhaps you take it all in stride.
But I’ll still be over here, squeezing my eyes shut, and covering my ears, and humming loudly as the nurse announces my weight at my next prenatal appointment.
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