Weight really is just a number
by Jennifer Cohron
Sep 12, 2010 | 2319 views | 0 0 comments | 26 26 recommendations | email to a friend | print
Jennifer Cohron
Jennifer Cohron
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When I got pregnant, my doctor told me that I should gain between 25 and 35 pounds while carrying Wyatt.

It seemed like a reasonable request at first. I made an honest effort to eat better, walk at least 30 minutes a day and check my weight once a week.

I also found a nifty online calculator that let me know how I was doing based on my height, weight and stage of pregnancy.

The first few months went smoothly. I gained a couple of pounds. Not a problem.

As I started my second trimester, the needle on the scale crept a little higher. My blues jeans got tight, but I could still wear them if I left the button undone.

By Thanksgiving, I was puffy and could only wear stretchy pants. My weight gain was on track if I fudged my height a little for the online calculator.

I think the wheels fell off around the fifth month.

I didn't get a cute basketball belly that everyone wanted to rub. My middle just spread in an east to west direction.

I had gained 50 pounds by the time Wyatt was born. Now I am 20 pounds away from my pre-pregnancy weight, which is pretty good considering I'm not dieting or exercising regularly.

I tried to make use of a Valerie Bertinelli workout DVD several weeks after delivery, but the excruciating pain of simple stretches was too much for me.

Now I avoid it because of Valerie's attitude. Anyone who smiles that much while exercising must be deranged, and I don't want anything to do with her.

I keep telling myself that I'm going to get up earlier to do some walking. I imagine myself strolling and collecting my thoughts while Zac and Wyatt snooze. Then 6 a.m. rolls around and I'm too exhausted to blink.

I've never been a girl who obsessed over my figure. I'm usually 10 to 15 pounds heavier than the Body Mass Index expects.

Zac knew from the start of our relationship that I'm not going to order a salad on a date and watch him eat steak. If he gets a footlong Subway sandwich, so do I. Its the equal rights clause in our relationship.

Our son is no dainty dude either. He doesn't just eat; he attacks. I call him my chunky monkey.

Wyatt weighs about 17 pounds now. I'm not sure what percentile he's in for a 4-month-old, and I really don't care as long as he is healthy.

I realize that there is an obesity problem in this country, but I think some people are too preoccupied with weight -- their own and everybody else's.

Those who constantly stand in judgment of other people's waist size want to force the rest of us to change through bad laws and tampering with our food.

Several months ago, I heard that a ketchup company was going to reduce its product's sodium content by 15 percent. I snidely told Zac that I guess I would be using 15 percent more ketchup on my burgers.

What I eat and how much I weigh is my business. If my box of Krispy Kreme donuts offends you, I suggest you get over it.

Weight, like age, is just a number. What's more important is the quality of our lives.

If I'm uncomfortable in my own skin, whether it's because I weigh too much or too little, then I need to make a change. But I should be focused on making myself happy, not conforming to someone else's idea of what my body should look like.

Of course, I want to be healthy and set a good example for my son. I plan to take off my extra pounds in my own time and in my own way.

I'm in no particular hurry. I just hope my favorite pants don't go out of style before I can fit in them again.