It all started with a little cherub named Charlie. I turned thirty-six a month after Charlie was born, and for 18 months I nursed him, knowing he was my last little babe and wanting to enjoy every bit of our time together. I went for my annual checkup when he was about a year old, and when I got on the scale I noticed that that stupid silver marker thingy had to slide a wee bit further than usual to balance, but I convinced myself it was because I was still nursing and decided not to fret. And by not fret I mean I sauntered around the block once or twice and then went home for a giant bowl of ice cream. I was nourishing a child, after all! (A child who by this time was eating his weight in pizza, but that's beside the point.)
Right before we moved to New York I went in for another checkup. I had been done nursing for nearly six months, and Charlie was about to turn two. As I headed toward the scale I started stripping down, casually trying to dump my purse, coat, and shoes without looking like I was trying too hard. The nurse noticed. "You wanna take those earrings off too?" she asked with a wink. I almost reached over and pinched her. That marker thingy seemed to slide forever, and the long and short of it is that I've gained a good six or seven permanent pounds over the course of the last few years. That may or may not sound like a lot to you, but here's the thing: I've been the same size and weight since I was in the 9th grade. I made it through the freshman fifteen unscathed; I made it through four months of bedrest unscathed; I made it through a twin pregnancy unscathed. But it does not appear that I am going to make it through my thirties unscathed.
Check in tomorrow for the ugly :-).