Stick a fork in me – I’m done… I have always been on the bigger scale. I was born close to 10 pounds and I guess I just kind of went with that theme for the rest of my life. And food has always been my faithful friend, my buddy, my comfort and my joy. I’ve fought the love/hate battle, won a couple of times, was defeated, and fought again. But the very minute I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I threw myself at a toasted cheese sandwich. Full-fat cheese. Lots of butter on the outside. White bread is best. There was no regard for calories or points or KJs or working it o at the gym. It was like someone had opened the floodgates and in poured anything with melted cheese on it. Think pizza, nachos, spaghetti, chips, mashed potato (don’t knock it until you try it). I’m sure the owner of the local pizza joint afforded his extensions thanks to my love of cheese. And I blamed it all on cravings. Every oily mouthful of cheesy goodness. But, now I’m pretty sure it wasn’t cravings, I think it was purely weakness. It was almost as though the minute our pregnancy was conformed, all regard for my health and fitness went out the window.
“Oh I can’t eat that, I’m pregnant. But could you please pass the cheese and French fries, that’s ok for me” I’d say. “No, no, I can’t drink a drop of alcohol, I’m pregnant. But I would kill for a pitcher of melted cheese and some corn chips!”
The night my husband, Paul and I were heading into the hospital to meet our boy, Jaxon, I weighed myself. I hadn’t stepped on the scales the entire pregnancy. When I saw the numbers go up and up and up some more, at first I laughed. I think that was disbelief. Then I cringed. Then I was somewhat impressed at my girth. Then regret hit me. I had paid the price for my weakness, in kilograms. Forty-seven of them to be exact. That’s like putting on Miley Cyrus, swinging in on a wrecking ball of cheese.
The second time round I’ve been more cautious. I’ve sampled from many a food group – not just cheese. I’ve still got a journey ahead of me – to lose Miley and her wrecking ball from last time and the additional bottles of wine in between pregnancies. But I’ve given myself a better chance this time around.