I have to admit that I was feeling pretty proud of myself. Pretty, pretty, pretty proud indeed. I stepped onto the scale and saw a number that I haven't seen since long before pregnancy. And oh boy was I thrilled. I thanked my mother's good genes, just to show my humility, but smugly told myself that my healthy eating habits and weekly (?) runs around the park were paying off.
I boasted of my success on twitter, proudly announcing that after six months, I was back in my skinny jeans. I bragged about it to Mr. Chef. I thought about changing my Facebook status to declare to the world my triumph over the baby weight, but decided it was to boastful so instead I daydreamed about the new wardrobe possibilities that were now open to me.
On the weekend we were invited to a Christmas Party at a local orphanage, and so I put together a cute little outfit that was modestly preppy, yet stylishly quirky, and was feeling good. There was fun, there were games, and some delicious cakes were decorated. As the party was winding down, some of the girls gathered around Stella and me. They spoke next to no English and I speak no Japanese. We were making do, muddling through a conversation, until they asked me a question. It was not one of the questions that I am routinely asked by strangers admiring my cute foreign baby. So I leaned in closer, squinted in concentration, and tried to decode their message.
They repeated the question.
I stared blankly.
Finally someone started to mime. Arms cradling, rocking a baby. Then stretching out, mimicking a large, pregnant belly.
"Yes, yes," I replied, "Stella was in my belly! Yup, she's my baby. I know, I look pretty good for having just had a baby. But you know, its because of my healthy lifestyle and..."
Oh, wait. That is not what they mean. They're pointing at my mid-section. They're holding up two fingers. Two babies, they're saying. They're asking me if I'm pregnant with another baby. Shit.
Not so skinny after all, you jerk.