As you may know, I have been lately overcome by an all-consuming desire for pizza. This was brought on mostly by a physician mandated diet revamp, where she was all “maybe stop eating gluten, because I heard all the cool doctors are doing it? And what the hell, let’s just throw dairy on that list as well, because I know how cheese is your favorite thing ever and also remember that I hate you.”
After two depressingly pizza-less months I am pleased to report that the ban on cheese has lifted. So yesterday I walked, nay, DANCED over to Aubree’s Pizza and ordered a 12″ spinach, artichoke and olive pizza with cheese and a gluten-free crust. It was utterly delightful.
Washed it down with a glass of, I kid you not, ED HARDY white wine. Unsurprisingly, it was kind of gross. But how could I not order it? It’s this same kind of pioneering spirit that led me to try Kid Rock’s “American Badass Lager” and Dan Akroyd’s crazy vodka that comes in a glass skull and let me tell you, friend, they completely met my lowered expectations. It’s too bad you’re incubating that fetus and its parasitic carrot twin or we could share in these booze experiments together.
Pregnant women are encouraged to eat whatever they want. They are encouraged to indulge their cravings because, you never know, it is PROBABLY because your fetus needs calcium to grow bones and stuff that you are craving pizza. People say, “You’re eating for two.” That’s true, although one of the two is the size of a cabbage, and probably doesn’t need to share an entire pizza with you.
Last week, at my midwife appointment, I saw a new midwife. The place where I’m going has three midwives and two doctors. You see your “main” person — mine is a lovely woman named Elaine who I often feel compelled to hug (but haven’t) — and then as you near your delivery, you get appointments with all the other women at the practice, because, birth plans be damned, the baby makes the birth plan, and you can have a baby on anyone’s watch.
The last time I saw Elaine, I had gained twenty-five pounds, which, she assured me, was “totally normal.” “Totally normal” are two of Elaine’s favorite words. This is probably a big reason why I want to hug her all the time. Hemorrhoids that bleed just because? Totally normal. A feeling that your stomach is going to burst open, Alien-style? Totally normal. Googling “how do you know if the baby’s dead inside you” repeatedly? Totally normal.
So last week, I met with Cheryl. I liked her right away. But then something happened. It didn’t make me not like her, it just made my world crumble a little, no biggie. She told me I had gained thirty pounds. I nodded enthusiastically and said something about that being “totally normal.” She paused, and then said, “Well, to be honest, that’s a totally normal amount of weight to gain over the course of your entire pregnancy, but you’ve still got a little over a month to go.”
I made some comment about how I hadn’t really been “feeling” the veggies too much lately, and that all I was really THAT interested in eating was bread and cheese. She smiled politely and told me that carbs were great, but that carbs make big babies. Veggies make seven or eight pound babies. Carbs make nine or ten pound babies.
This is advice that makes sense in the most unfortunate way possible, by which I mean to say: It makes sense, but it’s not going to change my eating habits all that much. It’s just going to make me really, really mad at myself while I am trying to push that ten pound baby out without drugs. The whole hindsight being 20/20 thing hasn’t changed in my “new” life. In my old life, that translated to a lot of hangovers. In my new one, it translates to a watermelon coming out of a snake hole.
So guess what, Annie? I’m glad you’re having pizza again, I really am!
And I’m glad you are drinking weird alcohols too. I miss that. I don’t miss it half as much as I thought I would (anyone who knows me knows how much I enjoy a drink or five), but I miss it. More than that, though, I’m SO TIRED of having to soberly make conversation with people.
I also still miss pooping. At least, pooping the way that regular people poop.