Size matters

Just got back from a glorious morning off, which consisted of sitting in a dirty waiting room full of old and infirm citizens and flipping through an 11 month old copy of Glamour (Are all women's magazines as slutty as Cosmo now? Shocking.) whilst pounding a bottle of flat orange soda whose caloric content made me gag almost as much as the flavor itself. But I digress. And hopefully successfully process 4,000 mg of pure, unadulterated glucose with nary a blood sugar uptick.

I would have to say the highlight of a morning spent in the company of the hoards of obs/midwives/nurses-who-went-to-2-year community-college (maybe) who staff my lovely neighborhood Kaiser clinic had to be the weigh-in on the industrial cattle scale. I know it was cattle rated, because I saw hoof prints all over the platform which I gingerly ascended in bare feet (every little ounce counts). Or maybe those were my hoof prints. One can never be sure.

The point is, I've reached my goal weight for this pregnancy! Go me! And 11 flipping weeks early!

Overachieving?

Just a little.

(Not to finish a brag with another brag, but my blood pressure also fell into the category of 'small child/professional athlete.' I know this, because I googled those numbers on my phone while sitting in the exam room frantically searching for something upon which to hang my shreds of pride/dignity.

Hear that, baby? We're all done gaining weight! What a relief...now maybe I can stop drinking those tiresome breve lattes stirred with sticks of butter for breakfast every morning.

Nothing but efficiency for me and my offspring.