Expectant moms have a love/hate relationship with gaining weight. We love packing on the pounds because it means our unborn babies are growing. At this time of year, we love it because as everyone else is setting New Year’s resolutions to get washboard abs, we’re throwing caution to the wind and downing a second pint of ice cream at 10 p.m.

And why shouldn’t we? It’s the only time that we can grow a rounded belly and feel safe that we won’t end up on a TV news story about obesity with a black line superimposed over our faces.

But once a month during our prenatal checkup, we curse Ben and Jerry when the nurse says, “Hop on the scale, and let’s see how much weight you’ve gained.” Immediately, our minds flash back to that fourth helping of mashed potatoes, and we know it’s not going to be pretty.

This happens to me every checkup, and I frantically start shedding clothes in a desperate effort to preserve my dignity.

Shoes and socks? Off. Earrings? Off. Wedding ring? Off. Winter coat? Off. Underneath, I’m wearing the lightest-weight tank top and shorts I own. Who cares that it’s two- degrees below zero outside.

Some things are worse than frostbite.

“Are you ready?” the nurse impatiently asks.

“One more thing,” I say.

I dig through my purse, pull out my nail clippers and start cutting my toenails.

“OK. I’m ready.”

As I step on the scale, I see a twinkle in the nurse’s eye. I realize this is the best part of her day. Why else would she have put the scale smack-dab in the middle of the hallway with a spotlight shining on it? It’s positioned so every medical assistant, pharmaceutical sales rep and patient within 100 yards can hear the slider tick, tick, tick up the scale.

The scale should be tucked away in a dark, soundproof room. If it were, female diseases would be eradicated because women would visit their doctors more often. Instead, everyone within earshot hears the nurse say to me, “Looks like someone enjoyed the eggnog this Christmas.”

Then, with the weight of a barbell hitting a concrete floor, ‘clunk.’ The nurse moves the big slider up to the next 50-pound interval.

“Nine pounds in four weeks,” she says. “That’s a record in our office.”

I waddle off the scale and spend the rest of the day renouncing empty calories. I vow to remember that although I’m eating for two, I’m not eating for two sumo wrestlers.

‹ Shasta Clark is a St. Clairsville native who lives in Chagrin Falls, Ohio, with her husband and son. Her email address is clarkshasta@hotmail.com.