I gained 55 disgusting pounds during my first pregnancy. Only 44 pounds the second one. I decided it wasn't reasonable to eat a Snickers bar everyday.
I was so nauseated that I couldn't stand the smell of my husband, my dogs, or the first floor of my house. I had the kind of nausea that makes you want to die. I did my fair share of worshiping the porcelain God every morning.
I learned very early on that "morning sickness" is a myth. It should be called morning, afternoon, and night sickness. Or maybe 24 hour sickness. I am so sick I want to die and kill my husband sickness. I am a miserable excuse for a human being sickness. I hate the world sickness. You get my drift. Pregnancy is not a becoming condition for me. I am not one of those women who glow. I glower.
I did however, have a twinge of jealousy the other day when I encountered a giant pregnant woman in line at Panera. I was trying to decide what I could eat and stay on my diet. She ordered an entire container of blueberry scones and began eating them. I decided to stick around to eat my bland, low-calorie soup just to see if she was going to eat all of them.
She came pretty close. It was quite impressive.
This got me thinking... Maybe I do miss certain aspects of pregnancy. An official name for my aforementioned weight gain, The Pregnancy Diet is a 9-month pass to eat whatever, whenever.
Not trying to maintain a girlish figure is awesome. If you have never allowed yourself months and months to eat with reckless abandon, I genuinely suggest it.
My husband, the money Nazi of the house, likes to keep track of our expenses. Whenever I use my debit card he gets an email almost instantaneously. He jokes that when I am pregnant; he stops getting emails from my favorite stores and instead can track me by random restaurants.
What I miss most is my love affair with The Great Steak and Potato Co. I would open the place and order a huge chicken cheese steak with extra cheese, tons of mayo, banana peppers, onions, and green peppers. To make sure the post-meal heartburn was worth it, I would also ask for double, deep-fried French fries.
Another oldie buy goodie is McDonalds. The yellow arches symbolize my ballooning boobs, butt, and thighs after I hit the drive through window and order a bacon, egg, and cheese bagels. It's the best washed down with a coke and a strawberry milk shake. I probably had this nutritious meal 5 out of 7 days for the first 16 long, miserable weeks of my pregnancies.
Of course not all my pregnant food memories are positive. I had a particularly weird craving for a chili hot dog they sell at gas stations. I was topping it with mustard and onions when this fat kid, around 10-years-old, peeked around the corner of the gum aisle and called me, "fatty, fat, fat."
I thought I was just hearing things so I said, "What did you say?"
Clear as day, he said, "You don't need that. You are fatty, fat, fat, fat."
I didn't cry. I snapped, "I'm pregnant, what's your excuse fat Albert?"
His white-trash mom started yelling and threatening to call the cops and tell them I was "hollerin" at her son.
It wasn't my proudest moment. I left Speedway with my dog and my pride. First I ate it. Then I called my husband for a good cry and support. What I got was a lecture about calling a little fat kid- well, fat.
No longer under the influence of hormones, I do feel a little ashamed for what I said. I secretly hope that little shit makes it out of his trailer park and on The Biggest Loser. See ... no hard feelings.
