I’m glad I know my “baby weight”

Expected weight gain: “25–30 pounds.”

In pregnancy, you WILL gain weight. I knew that. It’s expected. It’s monitored closely. It’s a healthy part of the process. If you have a “normal” pregnancy, the expected weight gain is anywhere from 25–30+ pounds. At one point — where I am now, in the third trimester — the gain is about one pound per week. In diet culture, that’s how much weight many people are told (or try) to lose per week.

In my college class, Nutrition Throughout the Lifecycle, we studied where that “extra” pregnancy weight is attributed. “Only 6–8 pounds is the baby!” people say. As if that would be a more reasonable amount to gain. Just the baby. Nothing to take care of, or nurture, that small growing human.

My 20-year-old eating disorder mind wanted to memorize the “baby weight” list, to comfort my future self. Now, I want to comfort my college-aged self and say, “It’s OK. We’re OK. That list doesn’t matter. We trust the process.”

At the beginning of my first appointment, I wanted to see the scale.

I saw the baseline. I knew where we were starting. I thought nothing more than, “This is where my body is happy. This is where my body feels safe, and nourished, enough to support growing another human.” A TINY HUMAN is inside of me. MY body is growing a life. That still blows my mind every day.

But for many appointments after that (there are SO MANY APPOINTMENTS), I looked away.

I’m not entirely sure why. Some level of self-protection, sure. Some lingering doubt that I could be okay seeing the number constantly go up, reaching a new-to-me high. Some assumption that in not knowing, I could maintain this level of peace with weight that I’ve had for years. I looked away, trusted that when the nurse said, “Looks good!” that it did indeed, look “good.” And between appointments, I gave it no extra thought.

Now, well into my third trimester, I stepped on the scale again.

I wanted to look, so I did. I saw the new-to-me number. I stepped off the scale, continued the small talk about our holiday breaks with the nurse, and sat on the exam table. She checks my blood pressure, says she took a few days off and stayed in the area. I say we drove for eight hours, so I’m feeling a little stiff. She tells me to go leave a urine sample, that I have some time before the doctor will be ready, and then leaves me alone.

I do as I’m told, writing my name, date, and the time of day on what is at least the tenth plastic cup I’ve peed in over the past eight months. I don’t think about the weight. I don’t think about where I am now versus where I’ve been. I go back and sit on the exam table. The doctor walks in, greets me with a smile and “How are you feeling?” Fine, I say. Always fine. I’ve been lucky. We’re 33 weeks now, I say. No major issues, I report. She measures my fundal height, then squirts the cold gooey substance on my bare belly. She puts the doppler heart monitor right in the sticky, clear goo, and there it is. “Baby’s happy!” she says, when we hear that sound.

The heartbeat.

I keep it going. I keep it strong. I give it the iron, and energy, and calcium, and folate, and fluids, and (hopefully) everything else it needs every day. I have extra blood to make sure that heartbeat, and the body it beats through, stays healthy and gets what it needs. I have extra fluid floating around (I don’t know how else to imagine extra fluid), and fluid surrounding this tiny babe. I’m storing extra fat. I’m making “milk” that will (hopefully) sustain this small human when the time comes. I’m carrying a human, IN ME, all day every day. Together, this baby and I are a solid force. How could this number mean anything but life?

I’m glad I know this “baby weight.”

It doesn’t define my pregnancy, which is lucky for me. It’s on track, as is the babe. And its mine to own and accept. I’m not going to “drop it” or try to “bounce back”. I’m going to let my body grow this human until we’re done, and then decide what it’s ready for next.