Yesterday while performing my daily "what percent of Nick's paycheck should I be stashing away for plastic surgery" naked body evaluation in front of the mirror, I noticed something strange.
It wasn't the fact that my stomach has completely disappeared under what looks like a badly crocheted Christmas sweater of stretchmarks, nor was it the fact that my nipples have established an inappropriate relationship with my belly button and engage in an embarrassing display of three-way PDA every time I remove my bra.
It was my left bicep. Somehow when I was busy obsessing over the more obvious flaws, like my hips that now have an eerie resemblance to a hammerhead shark face, my left bicep Hulked out and became noticeably bigger than the right.
When I sat down and thought about it, I can't say that I'm surprised.
Ellie is now 25 pounds. TWENTY-FIVE HEAVY ASS UNAPOLOGETIC POUNDS.
Every day I carry 25 pounds up and down the stairs. And into the grocery store. And up and down the stairs. And around the mall. And up and down the stairs. And around Home Depot for 45 minutes while Nick and I debate the pros and cons of clear vs. frosted glass in a ceiling fan light fixture. Oh, and then up and down the stairs.
And then I carry her around while I do a series of 1,000 squats picking up car keys from parking lots, sippie cups from garage floors, bags of carrots from grocery store floors and stray Leggos and other assorted land mines around the house.
At this rate I should be ready for Iron Man by May.
I didn't realize this was such a common occurrence until I was at the gym this morning and one of the trainers noticed I was using two different sets of weights. He pointed at me as he walked by and said, "Oh look there - you've got the Mom Strength! You don't fuck around with the Mom strength."
True dat, brother.