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A Laughing Stork Flashback: The Weigh-In

Candy's Column

A Laughing Stork Flashback: The Weigh-In

This was originally posted on March 20, 2009 and, as I head to the doctor’s office for my 21-week checkup today, I cannot help but relive this all over again…

My heart starts pounding before my feet even hit the intimidating black platform.  I hesitantly place a toe on it — then it dawns on me.

“Wait!  Let me take off my shoes!” I tell the nurse standing beside the scale.  She rolls her eyes impatiently.

Now, I am not an idiot.  Not a COMPLETE idiot at least — although Patrick Dempsey would no doubt disagree, given the time he generously offered to let me sneak in front of him in the long line at Bristol Farms and all I could do was blush, giggle and utter something along the lines of “Ugh pwsyfgft youw fsst.”  (Translation:  “Oh no, thanks, you first.”)

But enough about my natural grace and composure.

As I was saying, I’m not a moron.  I know my Steve Madden Mary Jane pumps weigh a grand total of one pound.  But, my God, if I can shave something… anything… from my ever-growing poundage, you can be darn sure I’m going to do so.   The nurse’s dubiousness be damned.

Why the hell is that?  I am pregnant.  Which means I am gaining weight — and that is a good thing.   Not something of which to be ashamed unlike, say, my encounter with McDreamy.  So why was I standing in my doctor’s office yesterday, seriously considering throwing my hoop earrings and cardigan on a pile with my shoes, and doing a few jumping jacks, before hopping on that freakin’ scale?

Sure, I could point fingers at society’s obsession with weight and of course, Nicole Kidman, who looked like she was never carrying more than a Skittle when she was pregnant.  That’s a lot of pressure to place on us pregnant commoners.  Damn you and your Baby Skittle, Kidman!

But honestly?  I blame the anxiety on the Health-O-Meter.  Oh, how I detest doctor’s scales.  With my own digital scale, it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid:  I step on it and it immediately reveals the damage.   No head games.   Just straightforward disappointment.  A doctor’s scale, however, is akin to a torture device:  I step on it and the nurse keeps slidingslidingsliding… the weight while I get closer... closercloser… to having a meltdown.

“PLEASE!  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP!  No, seriously — stop.  Stop… now?  Please…?  PLEASE!  How can that thing even go any higher?!  *SOB*”

Worst of all, the nurse is loving every minute of it.  Of this, I am certain.  I swear she slides it as slowly as possible to maximize my mortification. Nurse Ratched ain’t got nothin’ on Nurse Weigh-In.

Time for an attitude adjustment on my part, I know.  We pregnant ladies need to embrace our burgeoning figures.  We are with child!  We are beautiful!  Glowing!

But really, a cardigan probably weighs, what, five ounces?  At LEAST.

Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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