I’m sure you’re wondering what I weigh this fine morning. I’m wondering that, myself.
Last night, Lilah slept for more than eleven straight hours, for which we are considering sponsoring a tri-state parade in her honor. Shortly after hour ten, I staggered into the bathroom, engorged with my gluttony of sleep. I weighed myself as breastmilk sprayed all over the bathroom. Then I rushed out to assemble the hand pump.
J got ready for the gym while all three of the children remained asleep, even though the sun was shining. “I’m up 1.7 pounds from where I started,” I told him. “That’s almost 3 pounds from last week. Of course, I’m about to pump some of it off.”
“Well, you have to weigh yourself after you’ve pumped,” was his rejoinder. (I think the English language needs a verb for a reply made in the tone of voice that implies “duh.” “Snipped” implies something nasty and “scoffed” is more derogatory than this mock-insulting reply really was.) So, I pumped six ounces and weighed myself again, only to find I was an entire pound lighter.
Now, I know I was an English major in college, but I am not so bad at math. Last I checked, there are 16 ounces in a pound. Anyone know how pumping six ounces made me lose an entire pound?
It also begs the question of my actual weight, since I was carting a couple of feedings around in my boobs this morning. Do I subtract for the additional eight ounces of milk? And how much do I subtract?
I think maybe we should just say I had two good workouts at the Y and call it a week.