Berry Pie

Let’s go over this again.  How many pregnancies have we been through together?

Two.

So really you should know by now when I ask with a manic glint in my eyes for something specific, like a berry pie.  I mean a berry pie.  I would settle for a cobbler or a tart.  But I NEED the berries and the crust and NOTHING else.  It’s not my fault.  I’m not usually like this.  Sure, when I send you out for dessert, I expect something with chocolate, but you don’t understand that because you’re not a big chocolate guy.  I settle for what you bring.  Except when I’m pregnant.

So when you rush out to bring me my berry pie, I’m grateful.

But don’t get hurt when I look crushed, when I start to cry, when I see that you brought me a fresh fruit tart . . . with kiwi with the berries . . . with cream . . . with a crust that isn’t quite like a pie crust.  I know you tried.  I know you searched.  But I also know when I mentioned the frozen dessert section as a second resort that you waved me off saying you’ll just go to the pie section.

Don’t laugh when I start to cry in disappointment.  I’m emotional and irrational, and I cry at the drop of a hat.  I’m pregnant!  You try growing a baby, having your body morph in strange ways, be a washed in a sea of hormones.  See how normal you are.

Yes, you did the right thing bringing me a slice of tart to try since I ran away in tears, softly closing the bedroom door when I wanted to slam it (but the boys were sleeping). 

But don’t act hurt that I’m crying.  Of course, I’m going to yell at you.  I just vomited a bit because I started coughing because I was crying.  I can’t even have a good refreshing cry without that stupid cough making me more miserable.  I’m trying not to lose my dinner here with all those healthy vegetables and milk.   

Yes, I’m a big enough person to admit that I’m emotional and appreciative and that I shouldn’t have snapped at you.

But don’t act like I’m a basket case as I whip up a small berry crumble.  I would have done it before if I had the almonds I like using to make a bottom crust.  Yes, I’ll stay up late enjoying it.  Yes, the tart was fine.  You can have as much as you like.  You know what would go great with this crumble?  Vanilla ice cream.  No, we don’t have any.  But I know the stores aren’t closed yet.

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Reality Check: Pampering Yourself

 

Pregnancy makes you realize that you don’t pamper yourself enough. Like how you decided you didn’t need one of your favorite foods because it was just one more store to drag the kids to, more gas spent to get it, more money to be spent on something just for you. But then you start to crave it, desire it, dream it. So you strap in the kids, making it the last place in the line of shops, just in case they act up, because really it’s only something for you. Then you make it to the store because the kids are like angels. You walk in, collect the food items, select the shortest line that miraculously is the shortest line. The cashier tells you the total. $3.50. Yup, I’ve been depriving myself of heavenly Trader Joe’s Spicy Hummus Dip and whole wheat pitas to save $3.50. The Husband spends more on a beer. And I realize I’m getting real tired of playing the martyr. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to enjoy my lunch as I force the boys to have PB&J instead of the McDonald’s they were begging for.
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It’s all about nothing

Where do I start?

It was a better day today.  Since breakfast and lunch were digested normally.  The cure today was tortillas.  Yummy, fresh from the factory here in town tortillas.  Yup.  I have a lot of weight to gain if I want to hit the 200 mark again.

But then I did something disastrous.  I brushed my teeth.  While it’s a pain in the ass to feel like your doing your day under the influence of Nyquil, it’s easier than wondering when, what, and how much you’re going to hurl.  And we had to go to Costco or else I would be sewing diapers from rags tomorrow.

My parents took the opportunity to spend quality time with the boys and me, and it provided the perfect opportunity to annoy and perhaps embarrass their youngest offspring at work.  Not to mention, they needed to make a return.  My parents are very efficient this way.

As my mother made the return, my dad took over the pushing duties, giving the boys a tour of toys, Christmas stuff (Is any one else slightly disturbed by the fact Christmas stuff is out?), Halloween treats, and costumes.  My dad took great delight in trying to convince the boys that they should be Snow White or Cinderella.  That made it so much easier for my mom to find us by following the screams of protest.  After that, I took the wheel so that we could be finished before closing.

My mom’s big plan was to kidnap my children and send me home to rest and clean.  But the fatal flaw in her plan was that she bought me a pizza.  I had been craving one the day before, hoping that my baby brother had not demolished the Sunday one.  (Yes, my parents go to Costco every Sunday and always pick up a pizza.  One doesn’t understand why the baby brother waits until Sunday when he could buy one any day of the week.)  Unfortunately my other little brother had been there, and he HAD demolished the pizza to fulfill the ultimate desire for meat that he lovingly sacrificed for his bride.  Yesterday my mom had tried to satisfy my craving by offering a piece of cheese and bread, since those were ultimately what I wanted.  Yeah.  I laughed too.  I wish I could go back in time and offer her a glass of milk during her daily ice cream sundae cravings.

So I sat munching on pizza as my mom whisked the boys to bed after they nibbled on their lunch.  I listened to my dad rail about the problems of a nagging wife, a non-listening son, and the fears that my mother’s sister and husband would want to join us on the Alaskan cruise in 2011.

After an hour, I found my eye lids dropping, realizing it wasn’t safe to drive home.  Since the boys were in my old bed, the other guest bed was stripped, I curled up on my parents bed to promptly go to sleep.

But I am blessed and cursed with the ability to sense when someone enters the room I’m sleeping in.  No matter how deep I sleep (and I assure, I sleep deep), I wake up if some one just pokes his/her head into the door.  I think it’s to make sure that if some crazy serial killer enters the room, he won’t be able to wrap his fingers around my throat while I sleep.  Instead I’ll be able to grab the phone or lamb and bash his head.  It also comes in handy when The Husband tries to insist he came home at midnight instead of 2:30 when the bars closed.

So my parents walked in and out of their room numerous times, but I played dead, knowing that if the boys woke, my parents would take care of them.  By the time I woke for good, I was in no hurry to run home and back.  Instead I watched the farming channel with my dad who is obviously suffering from a late mid-life crisis as he learns all about owning his own farm.  Then my mom and I watched Dr. Phil, and I was able to congratulate myself on being an excellent parent as Tornado S snuggled up to me.

So basically that was my day.  Oh, and some one else cooked me dinner.  So what did you do?  (And damn I can write a lot about nothing.)

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