Hitting a milestone is supposed to be a good thing, right? So why am I not overjoyed at the thought of hitting a new weight milestone? A weight I never in my life imagined I would be? A weight whose number begins with a number I should never, ever have MY weight begin with? Surely it can't be my fault - this baby must be huge. Forget the fact that I polished off two batches of cinnamon buns that my mom made for me in record time. That has nothing to do with anything.
And? My feet? Gone. They have simply disappeared. It would appear that way, at least, for when I look down I can no longer see them. Instead I see a huge round mass that my 15-month-old lovingly refers to as a ball.