No doubt about it, five foot tall pregnant women are phat. They're as tall as they are wide. I should know. That's what I was when preggers. PHAT! When Olive was still residing in my belly, I went from being a 100 pound midget to a 142 pound one. Le husband complemented me by telling me I was "fun-size", and I reassured myself that I a few extra pounds here and there weren't going to hurt. "What's another five? There's that much more of me to love! Plus, they're all going to melt away when I start breast feeding, yeah?" Um, NO. Three months and a mega-failed-attempt-to-breast-feed later, I'm weighing in at 121 pounds and still sporting maternity jeans. Shoot. To make matters worse, my narcissist-in-the-making baby adores looking at herself in the mirror, and I'm then forced to face the scary reflection before me. *cue me some old-school Christina Aguilera circa "Mulan"* "Who is this girl I see?! Staring straight, back at me..." I'll tell you who. Fatty McChow, that's who! Need to do something about this baby weight a-sap. Just afraid that the "something" will involve lowering my calorie intake and upping my physical activity - a solution so obvious, it's laughable.
