You know what I am sick of? Every other person on the planet who is pregnant and does not weigh almost 200 lbs.
You women. The ones who are barely showing, and when you do, it looks like you merely have a nerf ball tucked under your shirt. The ones who are soo frustrated that they are actually losing weight during their pregnancy, even though they are totally “eating Whoppers,” like, three meals a day (liars). The ones who are sooo big, that are wearing their husband’s tshirts and sweat pants around, because that illustrates just how huge they are.
You have officially fucked with the Doctor Approved Pregnancy Weight Gain bell curve.
You have set impossible standards that I, in no way, intend to meet.
When I am not pregnant, I love to eat. When I am pregnant, I love to eat more.
I can’t fit in my husband’s clothes. But, to be fair, I can’t do it when I am not knocked up, either (boobs and hips, folks).
My thighs are rubbing together, I am pretty sure I have a double chin when I am not consciously trying to suck it in, and I have upper arm flappiness.
I can’t fit into my wedding rings or my pre-pregnancy panties. So I opt out of both.
My bra size is shocking. Shocking.
My pregnancy weight isn’t going to fall right off.
I am not the girl you will see in the grocery store with a newborn, and be shocked that she isn’t the babysitter. I will still look pregnant. I may even show you my episiotomy stitches if you ask nice.
Oooohhhh weight, I am long since over you.
If that means that I gain a crapload with every pregnancy, so be it.
Just keeping it real.
My porn star boobs are hot.
And tagalongs are yummier by the box full.