Warning: cranky, depressing post below...
Let me start out by saying I love my baby. I also love being pregnant. What I do not love is how I've dealt with being pregnant.
Today I had a prenatal visit, and as I mentioned on Sunday, I had to step on the scale. I'm up 30 pounds at 33 weeks 5 days (hell, who am I kidding, I like to call myself 34 weeks in conversation). That means that I'll finish this beautiful experience closer to forty pounds heavier than thirty pounds heavier; this was not part of the plan people. Now, the reason I say that I do not love the way I've dealt with being pregnant, is because from the moment I saw that little "+" on the pregnancy test, I stopped counting calories and I divorced my elliptical. If you take anything away from my blogging journey, PLEASE take this advice:
When you get pregnant...continue working out every single day, and eat as if you were trying to maintain your non-pregnant weight.
Think I'm wrong? Think you'll enjoy being large while you can? You won't. You'll watch the numbers creep up on the scale, and you'll get depressed. And this is not supposed to be a depressing time.
Two other pieces of bad news that I'd like to share with my devoted readers:
1) The baby is still in breech position. I asked the doc today to see if she could tell how the babe was lying, and she wasn't 100% sure, but she was pretty sure that the baby was in breech. My hopes and dreams of having a vaginal delivery are fading.
2) I have a stretch mark. A full-fledged stretch mark. And there is at least one more developing. I noticed it a week or so ago. On one of my many trips to the bathroom, I looked at my belly like I always do, and while looking at my front, I didn't see anything. It was when I turned to look at my profile that I saw a strange red mark. I called Casey over panic-stricken, and he confirmed that it looked like the start of a stretch mark. I just broke down and cried for a very long time. I know it may seem shallow, but its my body, and I officially can never wear a bikini again. I'm 20 years old, and I'm condemned to one piece bathing suits for the rest of my life. By the time I could afford a tummy tuck I'll be old and wrinkly, and to the point where I shouldn't be wearing bikinis.
And on that note, I bid you adieu. Have a pleasant weekend folks. You can look forward to my weekly stats post and a post on our birthing class in the near future.