No matter how hard I had been waiting for the birth of Csinszka, the same elephant left the hospital with the tiny little difference of carrying a meek baby. Like if she was stolen or something. The awful truth is that people keep asking whether I was expecting the next one. Even if they knew the baby is a couple of months old (really... I don’t understand people...)
I gotta say: this really bothers me. Even if it’s „just baby mom’s fat”, even if it’s „just 15-20 kilos”.
I got so depressed that as soon as I finished with breast feeding my girl, I hurried out on the street and trotted 5km every second day. For a week. Though I haven’t jogged a centimeter since April - instead going through a long-long pregnancy and giving birth to a child of 4020 gramms - I jumped slam jam in the middle of the previous routine, just where I’ve left off. Seriously, I do not understand myself either. Gradation: nil. Reasonableness: nil. This happened in autumn. A typical example of how to destroy my ankles, knees and hips and fall into deeper streams of exasperation.
This attempt ended in a great miserable gluttony of Christmas cakes.
Never ever do the same!
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