You know how the cops rarely write you a ticket for going ten miles over the limit on the freeway, but they nail you for twenty? My body has a speed limit. It used to be that whenever I saw a certain number, I'd just stop having seconds. Okay, I'd have seconds, but not thirds. I'd use smaller plates. I'd drink more water. And I'd drop down, still speeding mind you, but the cop would roll his eyes and let me go, waiting for a real scofflaw.
Then came my offspring, and the whirling lights, and the cop said, "Did you know you were going 52 miles over the limit?"
YES. I KNEW. IT WAS HARD TO MISS.
Everyone lies about how much they gain during pregnancy unless they are among very old friends. R. and L. know about my 52... miles... but it took me ten minutes to decide it was okay to just say it here. I don't know why. My mom gained sixty, her mom gained 55, maybe this is just how much weight my body needed to gain to make a good baby. Maybe 25 pounds is only doable for annoying stick people. Why does it matter so much? Whose body is this, anyway?
I wrote that last night. This morning the scale said I was only going 21 over. Immediately my brain went into justification mode. "Wow, that's only 12 miles faster than my previous top speed, I'm doing fine! Let's have us a little snacky snack to celebrate. And none of this yogurt or fruit nonsense. Let's have a quesadilla! With sour cream! Ugh, not that light stuff, REAL sour cream. And guacamole!"
Thank goodness the siren went off when I opened the fridge.