Fat in The ugly truth about making babies

I want to eat everything in sight today. Bad bad combo of hangover and period. I’m making a pretty big dent on everything we have in the house. Even the chocolates that have been sat there since Christmas, that I wouldn’t normally look sideways at, have been demolished.

My bmi is a constant worry for me, I know I need to shave a couple of points off it to qualify for ivf. I know that realistically that’s not even that much weight, probably between half a stone and a stone would have a good 4 points off it and put me well out of the obese category. It’s actually laughable, I know I’m carrying a bit of extra weight, I have a little belly and I’d love to have thinner thighs but it worries me that someone who wears a uk size 14/16 is considered obese.

I think my weight is something I’ve never been in denial about. I’ve always known when I’ve been a bit heavier or slimmer. I guess it’s never been something that’s bothered me, and if it does then I do something about it. I kind of hate that my hand is being forced, if I were able to get pregnant naturally then my weight would be irrelevant. The whole ivf process is already so complicated and I hate feeling like we have to jump through hoops just to have the opportunity of becoming parents when it’s already a really stressful time.

I get that it’s a means to an end and if it means the NHS will pay for our treatment then it is of course a) worth it and b) something I’ll do. But it doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.

Weight has never been a thing in our household. My nan was anorexic for practically my mums whole life, and my mum grew up with that. Going to buy her own school uniform because my nan was always weak and sickly and felt ill around the shops. My mum remembers them going shopping together one time and my nan almost collapsing at the bus station. She was determined that we would never have to grow up being faced with that situation. We didn’t own scales, she didn’t pass comment on our weight.

When I was 22, the boy I had been living with for 3 years broke up with me. He was my first true love, my best friend, and I was devastated. I had put on so much weight while we were together it actually pains me to look at photos of myself from that time because it doesn’t feel like me I was so big. But while I was happy my mum didn’t say anything, she didn’t say I was getting fat, and you know what, I love her for that. She was just happy that I was happy.

To the same end if I’ve ever said I wanted to lose a little weight she’s always supported me, joining me in healthy meals and coming swimming with me. Now that I’m older I guess there must have been a part of her that wanted to keep an eye that I was doing things properly and not being silly about my weight loss.

So it’s back on the being good wagon tomorrow, back to the couscous and veggies and more bloody grilled pork steaks!

Xx