Answer: Something I Never Thought I Would Do

Question: What are "Belly Shots?," Alex.

When I was pregnant with my first & second, and I say this without a hint of hyperbole, I never felt sexier or more beautiful in my life.  As an obese woman, I think I relished in the time that I was supposed to be round & curvy & I felt great.  My belly was supposed to eclipse the plane of my boobs & be round & full.  It was awesome.  It didn't hurt that I felt physically fantastic as well. 

Even with all of that good feeling, there was something that wouldn't let me take pictures that really documented or celebrated the "bump."  There are precious few pictures of me pregnant with my son & only a sparse handful with my daughter. 

When I looked forward to my "healthy" pregnancy (a moniker which I have since decided is a big fat joke--more on that later) I vowed that I would take the pictures.  I would chronicle the growth.  I would love each stage & celebrate this, my last time creating life.  It never once occurred to me that I wouldn't feel every bit as lovely & round & wonderful when I started out with a leaner, stronger body.

What a shock it has been as I have cried about my weight gain & the changes in my shape.  I don't feel sexy or beautiful.  I feel frumpy & slow.  I feel awkward & lethargic.  And I feel shallow & conceited.  I hid in the house until I made "the announcement" because I was sure that everyone was whispering, "that's the girl that lost the weight...see...it doesn't last." 

Now that I'm "out" I feel a little bit better.  My body is also cooperating & I look more pregnant & less chunky than I did even a couple of weeks ago.  I guess that's part of the third baby: my body isn't willing to fight the good fight when it comes to showing--it's just all hanging out there. 

So, without further ado, here is the first of many (I hope) belly shots of our Three-quel (because every good nerd loves a trilogy):

14 Weeks

And Then I Wondered if I Was Accidentally in Porn

In my hiatus from blogging, I avoided all things blog-adjacent.  I didn't check Facebook, I didn't monitor comments, & I didn't watch my stats.  There was guilt in not writing & if I didn't see any evidence that I wasn't blogging, it wasn't an issue, right?

Anyway...last night I sat down with the laptop & dug in.  I read all of your kind & supportive comments, both on the blog & on Facebook.  I picked through my page hits over my four month absence & was shocked that people were still tooling around even when I wasn't here.  And then I took a peek at how people were finding me when I was so busy hiding from them. 

As expected, I found mostly Google searches for weightylife or some derivation, but something had changed in my absence.  My brand new #2 & #3 search terms were--I discovered after a quick jaunt to Google myself--searches for porn.

I was a little appalled that something I've written about (quite often, I might add) touches on enough key words to get some pretty frequent hits in the middle of the night.  Dave's response: "Gee, Sara, you're right.  It IS shocking that people use the Internet to find porn."  Fair point.

So, if you found me searching for porn, I likely proved a huge disappointment.  I did write a post once about the thrill of buying new bras, but that's as salacious as I get around here.  But now I'm pregnant so that clearly means things will get kicked up a notch: there's nothing hotter than cankles, flatulence & debilitating heartburn.  So all you porn-hunters better stick around.  It's about to get hot in herre.

For all of those who are here without thinking I am a porn star: thanks for sticking around.  Thanks for bolstering me up.  Thanks for not expecting me to take off my clothes.  It's the little things.

Gaining

So...hi...my name is Sara & I have this little rag of a blog where I yap about the size of  my butt & the size of my plate & the size of my emotions on the size of my butt & the size of my plate.  Over the past year & a half, this blog has become absolutely critical in achieving & processing all of my goals...or at least most of my goals.

You see, I'm an only child (insert wise crack about being spoiled/maladjusted/introverted here).  I grew up wanting a bushel basket full of kids of my own to accommodate for the absence of kids provided by my parents.  Reality & old age pared my bushel basket expectations down to a more manageable number, but that number was still more than the two I was blessed with pre-New Sara.

So Dave & I had the normal convos that most couples have when they contemplate expanding their brood: where we would put a new baby & how we wouldn't all fit in our Prius & how we would adjust to Zone Defense.  I knew I wanted a baby.  I knew it would change things.  But I didn't account for it changing my blog.

I felt guilty for WANTING to gain weight.  I felt untrue to my goal weight which I would most definitely not achieve (in this sitting, at least).  I felt false to the people who asked me for advice or gave me compliments.  I felt uneasy about gaining weight & simultaneously comfortable doing so.  Then I felt uneasy about feeling comfortable.  Then I got mad that everything in my whole life comes down to weight...including adding a brand new person to the world.  In the grand scheme of things aren't some things more important? 

*sigh*  Since I'm using a thousand words to say something very simple, I'll throw in a picture, too:

I'm knocked up & we're all thrilled about it.  Really.  But there are some complex things swirling around in my head that make this pregnancy different than my others.  Stuff I probably need to blab about, so this blog is going to take a bit of a detour until February 2013.  I've stayed away until now, first out of an abundance of first trimester caution & then out of a feeling of guilt at changing the story before coming to a good resolution on the first--because no one REALLY likes a cliff-hanger.  But hang I must because now is just the right time to finish our family.  And isn't family one of the main reasons that I've worked so hard to shed 120 lbs? 



Family, and an excuse to go shopping--which I get to do again because none of my maternity clothes fit.