There are two things about getting through the 28th week: 1) We're solidly in the third trimester, and 2) Holy crap just a few months to go until Val and I are actual. you know, parental unit thingies.
On the first note, I'm pretty sure about being in the third trimester? Pregnancy Math is harder than Algebra, and I stunk at Algebra. I think Pregnancy Math goes something like, Val-squared times Jeff-squared equals Cooper-squared?
I'm a guy (thanks for not disputing that), so I may not be able to get this straight. Val's supposed to be gestating our mini Cooper for nine months, if my memory from health class serves (there was something about guy parts and gal parts and the end hanging out at Putt-Putt Golf & Games with friends if they shall meet).
And yet, according to the fifteen calendars that Val carries around, it's 40 weeks? Let me see ... nine times four ... carry the two ... subtract for spicy foods ... that's 10 months?
Except, the first two weeks she's not even pregnant. The math says to rewind back to her last period, which of course means that she's not pregnant at the time, hence the period. And my little guys attacking her egg didn't begin for another two weeks? So she's pregnant for about 38 weeks? I'm so confused.
I must unlearn what I have learned.
Speaking of math ...
Now that Val's been essentially diagnosed with gestational diabetes pending her doctor's authoritative word, not only is it time to watch her diet, but mine as well. I've certainly been watching my weight, only to see it go back up the last several months. How can I tell? When I wash my jeans they're so tight I have to do that thing where you walk around in them and sit down and get back up a few times to stretch them out.
And so it is that I am getting back on Weight Watchers. I need to be a good example for my Darling Valerie. Really, I'm a terrible, terrible influence, buying cookie dough to splurge seemingly every Friday night, practically shoving ice cream at her while watching our shows ("Eat to be happy! You're not happy without extra calories!"), not encouraging her to ride the exercise bike, and happily ordering all kinds of badness (albeit that is sooo good) at restaurants.
Plus, I figure since my parents like to tell me how I, as a baby, started walking at eight months and they couldn't keep up with me for the next three years, I have about one year from now to get in shape to be able to handle Cooper. And by handle I mean "tether him to the couch in the living room."
Keeping Jeff Accountable
Starting Weight: 379
10 percent goal: 341