I must have misunderstood the doctors when they were talking about Ramona’s weight gain. Because lately, I’m the one who’s been eating like my life depends on it.

I could make excuses and say it’s because the shock is wearing off and now I’m self-medicating to get through the day. But the truth is it’s a lot more logistical than pyschological. Now that we don’t have family living with us all the time, I no longer have a chaperone when I visit the fridge. And I really should. If this fridge was a prom date, she’d be seriously knocked up after all the advantages I’ve been taking.

I was so surprised when I lost about 45 pounds in the weeks following Ramona’s birth. And although I’m still well under my pre-pregancy weight, I’m well over my not-super-ashamed-of-myself weight.

The part of my brain that wants me to keep eating says, “You have enough to worry about, a little muffin top is no biggie”. But unfortunately, eating too much makes me feel tired, numb and lazy. And once I’m there the only thing that seems like it would make me feel better is, you guessed it, more food.

If I keep this up, they’re gonna need the Jaws of Life to get me out of the house. I’m already feeling vacuum-sealed in my non-maternity pants. Somebody stop me.

Jane.