Living Space

I went to the doctor yesterday. I hate HATE HATE going. Mostly because I HATE that I have been living off of ice cream and honey nut cheerios and I can't seem to stop myself and I end up "retaining water" (read, gained a lot of fat).

So, I weighed myself before I went so I wouldn't cry in front of all the nurses.

When I was pregnant with Lily, my doctor commended me for my modest weight gain (which inspired me to eat an entire box of Klondike bars), and I have been dreading him saying something this time.

He hadn't. Until yesterday...

He looked over my chart, and said, "Blood pressure looks good, weight is okay..." I hid my gasping sob by pretending to choke on my saliva.

He then checked my baby.

She is down (whew...I was super paranoid about that).

And...

She is BIG.

Looking back at my chart, Dr. Insensitive quipped, "I don't know where Lily came from, but this baby, if not your biggest (Josh was 8 lbs 9 oz...something you don't EVER forget...), will be your second biggest." Which explains why I feel like my body is splitting in half...

I was pleased. All that ice cream is apparently doing some good.

But then I thought about it.. Big baby equals Ouchies. So here is a rendition of my pregnancies, in chronological order (I have provided a key so that it all makes sense...If that is possible. Oh, and those sticks are my arms, so don't let your imagination run too rampant):

1. "This is gonna hurt." 2. "The tunnel had already been blasted open, so not too bad." 3. "Just sorta fell out there, sir..." 4. "Holy..what the HECK IS THAT???"

This knowledge has not helped my already panic-bordering paranoia about my ensuing labor...not helped in any way, shape or form. Time for more ice cream....