The first trimester has not been so kind to me this time around. Nausea, exhaustion, the usual complaints. But now that I have turned the corner into the second trimester I am hoping for smoother sailing ahead. But one issue remains as a result of a rough first three months.
It looks like I’m having twins and that embryo number two implanted itself on my ass. It was the perogies. People say that when they have morning sickness they can’t even look at food. I couldn’t stop eating. Huge platefulls of perogies were my demise. Carbohydrate bombs dripping with fried onions and bacon, topped with snow bank sized wallops of sour cream.
It was embarrassing. I out ate my husband. I out ate my cousin-in-law Steve. Steve is a six foot-many inches professional athlete and WAS the official family eating machine. Until I saddled up to the buffet.
I was ready to Indian leg wrestle him for the last of Nana Gwen’s chicken and rice, since laying down was the only thing I could do with my belly that full. But, being a father of two himself, he knew better than to get between a pregnant woman and her carbohydrates. He wisely backed off so I could chow down.
Steve, hands up, backing away slowly: “It’s OK Rea, put the fork down and nobody will get hurt. I’m stepping away from the rice. Slowly, easy now. See, the rice is all yours. Just put the fork down.”
Speaking of donut based marital disputes, in his breastfeeding classic, “The Baby is a Mammal”, Michel Odent takes a refreshing view of polygamy. Rather than the old song and dance about women being possessions that every rich man should have, he suggests that husbands are a pain in the arse, best dispersed among the many. Rather than having her husband buzzing about like a hungry fly, Odent feels a pregnant woman deserves to pass her husband off to someone with more energy to deal with him.
In light of my carbohydrate needs he may have a point. A temporary husband-free phase. No one to fight for the last pancake in the morning. No one to raise his eyebrows as you double fist the oatmeal at midnight. No Spanish donut addict stealing the last of the Tim Horton’s stash while you are sleeping.
Thanks, dear readers, for hanging in there with me over the summer. All that carb scarfing and dry heaving didn’t leave a lot of energy for creative blogging. But I so appreciate your taking the time to check in with Not So Spanish. And I love your comments. Keep them coming.
I hope your new September rhythms and routines and funky, fun and topped with sour cream.
Love Rea, Rogelio, Yago, and ? (so please send your English-Spanish compatible name suggestions).