Is it just me or is the whole weigh-in thing for pregnant women a little bit archaic? It feels to me vaguely like being bled by leeches or having one’s feet bound... a bad idea in both theory and practice. I mean, come on – is it really necessary to know exactly how many pounds a mom-to-be is putting on in order to know whether she’s healthy or not?
So I had my 33-week check-up yesterday and it was loads of fun. Not only did I have no choice but to bring Asher with me – nary a sitter was to be found – but we waited there for almost three hours before I got to see the doctor. (Hey, it’s par for the course up here in Canada, but at least we get free universal health coverage and a full paid year of maternity leave, so quit your snickering!)
Fortunately, Asher was a very good boy; I bribed him with chips, chocolate and a suitcase full of fun stuff. I, on the other hand, didn’t have a very good time at all.
After my big ol’ blowout Bellagio buffet binge last week, I knew getting on the scale was going to be brutal, and it was. I won’t reveal a number – I’m far too ladylike to post my weight online, no matter how indiscreet I may be about holding my water – but suffice it to say that I have my own gravitational pull at this point.
In the end, I can only conclude one thing:
That
plus:
equals:
