Looking at those pictures of post-pregnancy Kate Middleton the other day, I thought one thing - wow, doesn't William look trim?
Because while the obsession with celeb women losing weight is a more obvious fascination for people (even though it's stupid and reductive), with a comparatively new baby at home, I'm more worried about my tits and overhanging belly.
Male pregnancy weight is not something discussed all that much. Which isn't that surprising since I've just made it up. But having spent the past 11 weeks shoving a mixture of cheese sandwiches, cake and Tangfastics into my gob, it's a problem that's very much at the forefront of my mind.
Especially because with blokes, there's no excuse. Women have to carry that seven-pound human in their abdomen, they're eating for two, they have every right to plunder whatever they want from whichever section of the supermarket. And when the baby arrives, constant feeding, household chores and snatches of sleep means there's not really time to think much about what you eat.
The problem is, I was/am there the whole time. My complete lack of willpower means I am more than happy to finish off the large bar of Dairy Milk picked from the cornershop counter. And now, any time a grandparent is lovely enough to come round for a quick babysit, I'm more interested in a nap than hitting the gym. Plus, though I'm a keen cook, the idea of spending too much time thinking of something healthy to make fills me with dread. My wife and I have been eating brinner a lot in the last couple of months.
The result? My stomach is more distended than K-Mid's was when she was carrying Georgy Boy. And while I love my daughter burrowing into my chest as we lie on the bed, her attempts to suckle my moobs are starting to get disturbing.
So what to do? I've resolved to use the pram more. We were fortunate enough to inherit a great, easy-to-handle Bugaboo Bee (with denim trim, zing!), which luckily has lots of space to keep my inhalers. And while I actually want to snuggle in that soft-looking fleecy cocoon while my baby daughter pushes me round the park, more walks mean more aerobic exercise.
Otherwise, I have to cut down on the snacks. Like Renton in Trainspotting, I've got to go cold turkey on the treats. Which is a real bummer because I've just discovered the greatest carrot cake in the universe (at Blend on Green Lanes). And I've got to eat more veggies. Which might well mean I am competing with my kid for top trumper in our household.
Either way, my wife looks great. And for the rest of you - spare those poor women your judgement and turn your eyes on their men. Trust me, we're the ones who should be suffering unflattering photos on the Sidebar Of Shame.