Before we go any further, let’s get one thing straight: I am not a Kardashian fan. I’ve never watched any of their shows. I still don’t quite understand how or why they are famous. But they have permeated popular culture and now I find myself in the unlikeliest of places: defending Kim Kardashian.

Did I really just write those words?

I sure did. Because I am horrified by the media coverage of her pregnancy weight gain.

Now, no one has benefited more from her fame and celebrity than Ms. Kim, a longtime tabloid target, so it is not too surprising that the media has been all over her the moment she announced her pregnancy. But when did it become acceptable to pick on an expecting mother and call her “fat”?

We’ve all been in there — that awkward period before the baby bump has announced itself as a baby bump and not just a really big lunch. We’ve all felt awkward, uncomfortable and hormonal. Now imagine going through that in the public eye, with tabloids and news outlets scrutinizing every ounce of your body and speculating on your weight gain? I can’t imagine what it must be like to see yourself on cover after cover next to headlines like, “Don’t Call Me Fat!” (US Weekly), “I Can’t Stop Eating!” (In Touch Weekly) and “Pregnant Kim’s Nightmare” (Star magazine, referring to her unlikely 65-lb weight gain). Star even took it one step further, comparing a photo of her in a black and white dress to an image of Shamu the killer whale.

Wow. Really? Um, tabloids, in case you haven’t heard, you’re supposed to gain weight when you’re carrying another human being around inside of you — whether you’re a celebrity like Kim or an average mom like me, who gained more than 60 lbs during her first pregnancy.

I admit, there were definitely times that I felt self-conscious about my size, especially in my third trimester when people asked if I was having twins, and I wasn’t a big fan of my “cankles.” But my pregnancy weight gain was a subject reserved for only three audiences: my obstetrician, my husband and my girlfriends. It was not fodder for late night television or used as a marketing ploy to sell magazines.

So this is why I feel an unexpected pang of sympathy for Kim Kardashian because, celebrity or not, no one deserves to have cruel and nasty things written about their body ­– especially during such a beautiful and special time as pregnancy. The intense scrutiny and obsession with her weight gain is bordering on bullying, and sends a terrible message to all women that the pregnant body is something to be ashamed of.  We already feel the pressure to squeeze back into our skinny jeans weeks after giving birth. Now we’re not even allowed to gain a healthy amount of weight when we’re expecting? Geez, what’s next?

Do you think it’s fair to judge Kim for her weight gain?

Plus, more from The Bump:

What to Eat During Your Pregnancy

5 Ways to Keep Your Pregnancy Weight Gain Within Reason

Will My Body Be the Same After Baby?

Last night, after my workout, I forgot to put a shirt on.

For four hours, I walked around our home wearing a Target nursing bra and GAP Body short shorts. I cooked dinner that way, I talked to my friend Amanda for 45 minutes on the phone that way, I watched Californication with my husband that way and I brushed my teeth, swallowed my vitamins and hit the sack that way.

This is a relatively new phenomenon for me. Sure, there have been questionable stretches of time where I showed lots of skin: My freshman year of college, when I ran around my dorm wearing tee shirts barely long enough to cover my butt; my early 20s, when I danced until 4 a.m. in cages at clubs clad in what could barely be described as scraps of fabric; years at the gym where I worked out in just sports bras and bike shorts. But all of those phases occurred during periods of disordered eating or horrible body image issues. I suspect I was acting out in some way, revealing skin in an effort to trick people into thinking I was comfortable with, or even proud of, my figure, at times when I truly was not.

Then I got better and left the ED bullshit behind. I stopped stepping on the scale and forgot to look at the “Calories Burned” readout on the elliptical machine and no longer ordered dishes at restaurants When Harry Met Sally-style .(“I’ll begin with a house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing. I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce. On the side.”)I was content with my body — not in an over-the-moon, submit-my-pics-to-Playboy kind of way, but I learned to focus on what my body allowed me to do and began to appreciate its strength, its height, its power. During this period of recovery, I dressed more appropriately; I was never mistaken for an Amish woodworker, mind you, but I wasn’t exactly frolicking around the pool in a thong.

Then I had a baby, and everything changed — in a way for which I was totally unprepared. Today, I love my body. Not just in a “Today is October 17^th, it’s National Love Your Body Day!” sort of a way. It’s in an, “I want to run around naked because I am obsessed with my boobs and hey, the rest of me looks pretty damn good, too” sort of way. Not only was I not plagued by stretch marks or significant weight gain while carrying Evie, but breastfeeding had some sort of bizarre affect on my metabolism, to the point where I regularly snack on cups of buttercream frosting and order dishes like short ribs and fried calamari when dining out, and it just sort of burns off. Up top, my small-B chest has swollen to a nice C-cup, which I feel perfectly balances out my five-eleven-ness. Last week, during a baby-free Cancun weekend getaway with Dan, I found myself purposefully leaving my cover-up* in our hotel room and not only parading around the pool in my new Victoria’s Secret (Size Large!) bikini top and string bottoms, but attempting to dine at the indoor buffet in non-omelet bar-friendly attire. For the first time in my life, I am truly singing, “I love my body.” And I don’t want to feel ashamed or egotistical for doing so, because I’ve wasted far too many years screaming just the opposite at myself.

But here’s the rub: This body that I love, it’s a false body. As soon as I stop breastfeeding, the boobs will surely deflate and my teenage boy metabolism will probably screech to a halt. No more mid-afternoon noshes of whole jumbo avocados mashed up with garlic salt and slathered on Stacey’s pita chips; no more Dairy Queen runs for extra cookie dough. No more size 27 jeans. No more Victoria’s Secret Size Large bikini tops.

What I hopehopehope happens is that, come weaning time, my enhanced outlook stays with me even as my physique resettles into its old comfort zone. That I still feel comfortable walking around the pool sans cover-up and I don’t feel compelled to revert to ordering side salads squirted with lemon juice. I do believe that simply the act of being a mom to a little girl will have its own protective effects on my body image; she’s already taught me so much about adoring what I see when I look in the mirror.

And maybe – just maybe – one of the reasons I love this amplified chest so much is because of what it represents: That I am growing and nurturing our child.  To her, they offer sustenance and comfort. I wonder if perhaps that knowledge is subconsciously coloring my perspective: When I see “36 C” on my bra label, I interpret it as “Size: Nourishing.”**

But for now, as I move towards my goal of nursing for one year, I’m going to keep “forgetting” to get dressed and shovel in as many slices of deep dish as I can. Because the truth is, I’ve taken another page from the When Harry Met Sally playbook: After years of hating it, my thoughts about my bod are now of the “Oh…Oh God…Oh, ohh…Yes, Yes, YES!” variety. And damn, it feels good.

How has your body image changed postbaby?

*But what a cute cover-up it is!

**Please note, this is not me saying that moms who feed their babies formula are in any way less than. Nor am I saying a woman needs big breasts to breastfeed, because she doesn’t.