Oh, and in case you're wondering, my first thought was, "No no no, sweet Jesus please no, why are there two lines on this pregnancy test, what the hell am I going to do, I have a 6-month-old and a 1-year-old, I've totally screwed myself, damn it to Hell - that stupid husband of mine this is all his fault I TOLD him this was going to happen, wait maybe this is a special unique brand of European pregnancy test where two lines actually means not pregnant, oh please lord let that be the case, no no it's not the case at all, oh crap my life is ruined, I wonder if I could pretend like I don't know this information and still have some beer tonight."
So now that she's 7 weeks old, and I got the all-clear to resume life as normal yesterday from J.T. my trusty O.B., I begrudgingly realize it's time to face the music.
The music being the sound of my stomach rumbling all day as I can't stop thinking about my secret lover, chicken McNuggets.
The music being my lungs wheezing after I coughed up something I ate last week while running on the treadmill.
The music being my jeans screaming in terror as I trade them out for the sweats I've worn for the past 11 months. The sweats I can't function without for the two hours it takes to wash and dry a load of laundry. The sweats I tried to wear to our church Christmas Eve service but Nick made me change and the only pants I had that even came close to buttoning were so tight I started to hallucinate from lack of blood to my brain and peed my pants a little every time I sat down or bent over.
I knew this time I was going to need some help and all I could think about was the Sex and the City episode where the book store worker tells Miranda "Will the New York Times come to your house at two in the morning and pry the cookie dough out of your hands?"
Yes, yes - I need whatever that is that does that.
So I took a deep breath, and feeling like a kid on her first day at a new school, walked in. Except instead of the kid I was the fat kid (big diff), and instead of school it was a strip mall where I had to stand on a scale in front of a total stranger and have her weigh me.
And you're dying to know what that number was, aren't you? Well, my friends, I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid because I know it's only going down from here. So here you go:
And just to prove that I'm REALLY not afraid I'll share another picture with you of what my sister lovingly refers to as my Dunlop Belly.
You know, my belly so big it done lopped over my drawers.
But, in my defense, here was the 'before' 8 short weeks ago:
I have a weigh in every Tuesday morning and I will gladly share the results with you each week (I'm a week behind on my blogging so -spoiler alert- I'll bring you up to today and tell you that I lost 3.8 pounds already this week - booyah).
Also I decided to run in the St. Patrick's Day 5 mile race. Have I ever run 5 miles? No. Have I ever run 4 miles? Not exactly. The truth is I've only actually run one race, a 5K, and it was ugly. I mean, REALLY ugly.
People were hitting cow bells and banging drums and yelling the same encouraging things you would yell at a child trying to cut meat for the first time at me as my brain desperately tried to tell my pissed off legs to move and cross the finish line. Mind you this was all after I tried to abandon ship and crawl across a median to get to my car because I thought I was going to barf if I had to run the last 200 yards.
So why am I doing this again? Because I'm a glutton for punishment.
But that's the only glutton I'm allowing myself to be from here on out.