saturday stats: it's just a number right?

I asked Dave to take a few pictures of me to post a before shot but then I chickened out and made him crop them so they only showed my face.  One step at a time...

I wrote yesterday's inaugural post in the afternoon while Kate was napping.  Then she woke up and the sounds of her crying jostled me back into real daily life.  My evenings consist of Cheerios and diapers with plastic toys that sing and wooden puzzle pieces.  I cut up pieces of cheese and pickles, sweep the kitchen floor for the billionth time of the day, and wipe clean two little hands and one smiling face.  I re-roll the toilet paper (again) and pack my diaper bag.  We look for birds and dogs on the way out to the car and buckle seatbelts and carseats and drive away to pick Dave up from work.  After that it is folding laundry while Dave chases Katelyn around the living room, her laughter piercing the air like fireworks.

Bath time, story time, prayer time, bed time.

By the time I sat down with my computer to face my impending exposure, my confidence had waned.  Pressing the publish button on Blogger was no big deal.  Only a handful of acquaintances might stumble over to this corner of the internet.  But as my finger hovered over the Facebook share button, my heart jumped into my throat and my stomach rumbled.

This meant commitment.  This was real.

So imagine my dread as tonight I hit the execute button on a post that will reveal my weight on the internet.

One time when I was pregnant with Kate, Dave came with me to one of my prenatal appointments.  It was a great day.  I got to hear little Katelyn's heart beat and see her kicking and squirming around on the ultrasound.  We went back upstairs to hopefully hear the doctor confirm that our little "Lentil," as we called her, was healthy and well.

She was perfect.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  It was wonderful.

And then, as only a thin person would do, she nonchalantly said my weight out loud.

IN FRONT OF MY HUSBAND!

I just about died right on the spot slumped over the table with the stirrups.  Dave could sense that I was totally and completely mortified.  I weighed more than him.  It was humiliating.

For months, we both pretended that it didn't even happen until one day I was about to weigh myself and told him to look away.

"I know how much you weigh," he admitted, cutting the tension that was still lingering. (Which I already knew he knew that I knew that he knew how much I weighed anyway.)  I just stared blankly at him.  "It doesn't matter," he continued, "It's just a number and you are just as beautiful now as you were before.  You have always been beautiful to me."

So I guess the point of that story is to remind myself that my weight is just a number.  You don't have to see the scale that I'm standing on to notice that I'm overweight.  Why should posting a stupid number make a difference?  If I didn't, it would probably just seem that I'm not taking this seriously.

So here you go.  Try to do a little drumroll with your thumbs on the computer please.

TA DA!!!!!!!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crawl under the covers and lie there for a day or so to decompress.