What every pregnant woman wants to hear in the doctor’s office:

“You’ve only gained three pounds! That’s great!”

Eric tried to hide the shock from his face when I came home and told him (thinking, I’m sure, about all the Alpha Bits and sour cream n’ bacon chips and piles of cherries and double-scoop Kawartha Dairy ice cream cone and obscene popcorn and half watermelons and and and that has been consumed the past month), but his eyes widened a bit before he said, “Of course that’s all, my little Shnookums!”

(OK, maybe he didn’t say that last part.)

It’s still very weird to outweigh your husband. I take some comfort knowing he can lift a lot of inert metal plates, so technically should be able to save my rotund frame from a burning building. Maybe even with Lucy and Spencer Dog tucked under an arm. I may be dragging behind them all with my face in the dirt, but at least I’ll survive.

I do believe, however, that with just 10 weeks to go, and a bonus pound I didn’t gain in the last four weeks just sitting there, it might be time to break my own rule and allow some Oreo cookies to enter the house. In fact, I might just buy the regular Oreos, and the Golden Oreos.

Oh, be still my thrashing heart, I am excited. Food: the sex for pregnant women everywhere.

Possibly related posts:

1. No longer needed
2. Excuse me
3. This
4. Don’t tell Eric that chana masala is better than sex
5. The first and only time I wish I lived in the U.S.