The first time the conversation came up was at a get-together with some college buddies. Buttercup was a little over a year old at the time, and that fits in with the usual timing before people start that “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” thing before asking when the next baby is coming along.
“No way in hell am I getting pregnant before I lose this weight,” I vehemently responded. “The first time sucked enough and I was in pretty decent shape. I don’t need to add 30 pounds to the equation. Maybe we’ll go for silver when Buttercup turns 3.”
A lot of time has passed since that discussion and I’m still dodging the question. The last time it came up with friends was after learning a mutual friend was pregnant with her second child. Her oldest is just a little younger than Buttercup, so it made sense to everyone else to look at me like I was nuts for holding out. That clock ticking and all.
Before I could give my practiced “I need to lose the weight first so I can have a better chance at a healthy pregnancy” speech, The Husband answered for me.
“Nah,” he said laughing. “Pauline would rather torture herself by getting skinny first so she can get fat and have to do it all over again.”
Well thanks a lot, asshole.
To his credit, The Husband has not pressured for a new baby yet. Nor has he looked at me sideways for still dealing with the same poundage I left the maternity ward with almost three years down the road. But sometime between the first “Just stay fat and deal later” conversation and the last, I’ve started wondering if I really am crazy.
Since I’ve actively started trying to find my waistline again in the Land of Cellulite, Thunder Thighs, and Muffin Tops, I’ve yo-yo’d like a champ, started and quit various weight loss plans because they weren’t working for me, found out I have to make nice with my body and my PCOS and Insulin Resistance before the scale will agree to be my friend, and started (and gotten pretty far into) a book that was supposed to be the Big Motivator for me to finally get off my ass and make things happen.
After doing the math (which, trust me, didn’t take very long) I’ve learned that I’ve lost a grand total of 11 pounds in 7 months. And that was before I got all pms-y and gained 4 back with that nasty little monthly bloat that likes to point and laugh at my self-esteem.
And considering the fact that Buttercup is just a few months away now from her third birthday and I’m still rockin’ my fat pants with all the snark I can muster, I may have to re-evaluate things pretty soon here.
Granted, nothing is happening until my doc gives the green light. Nor am I asking her to at the next check-up. But I’m not in a never-ending limbo anymore. The Husband will be 37 in July and I’ll be 33 in December. No matter what happens with the scale, I have to put up or shut up before the year is out. Not on getting pregnant, mind you. Just on the decision as to when to um, start that Olympic training.
And because my life operates under the Laws of Murphy, this was all a long-winded way of saying: Watch me suddenly figure myself out, lose 20 pounds, and find myself pregnant a week after I start shaking my wild thang in skinny(er) jeans…and then have to do it all over again.
I’m sure that at that point, I may have to concede that my friends were right.
I must be completely certifiable.
****Pauline M. Campos is a former journalist-turned-stay-at-home-mom to Buttercup. She blogs at Aspiring Mama and The Afterbirth and can be found on Twitter as @aspiringmama and @baby_phat. She is currently working on her first book, “Baby F(Ph)at: Adventures in Motherhood, Weight Loss, and Trying to Stay Sane.”
****The photo in this blog is Pauline at 36 weeks pregnant, just a few days before she was induced.
**This post originally appeared on Bookieboo.ning.com!