Let Me Help You with Your Jaw

Like every OB visit, I asked if I could please tinkle before stepping on the scale. Why this isn’t a customary routine, I will never know. I’m always directed toward the [might I remind you] out-in-the-middle-of-the-road scale until I ASK if I may head to the potty first. Nobody ever argues with me. I just wonder why every nurse doesn’t automatically assume all women, pregnant or not, wouldn’t rather first weigh 2 oz less. So, that is what I do every time.

However, unlike every OB visit, today I asked what weight they had on my chart from day-one to calculate how much I’ve gained. We did the math. And the first among two digits is a one. Let me repeat that. A one. Yes, that doesn't count the first 8 weeks prior to that initial visit, but folks, it's not an eight. It's a one. You might know me. And you might know how totally BELUGA I become when pregnant. And this first digit may leave you with a bit of an open-mouthed expression.

But let me assure you, mine is still on the floor. However, I don’t think my jaw has ever wanted so much to jump off my face, run screaming down the interstate [thumb extended in royal hitch-hiker fashion] to find a ride to the nearest world-wide, public platform in order to let everyone watching know: YOU NEVER ASK A PREGNANT WOMAN HOW MUCH WEIGHT SHE’S GAINED!!!

This happened. And has. Usually just once. Every. Time. I’ve. Been. Pregnant… typically with a “I only gained __ lbs when I was pregnant.” and typically the blank can be filled with world-record lows... dating back to the land-run.

Uh... *blink... blink... blink*

Offended isn't the word. Not hurt. Not failed. Just totally in need of help scraping my jaw off the ground. I don't think I'd be as shocked if I were asked what color my poop was this morning.