The latest development in my pregnancy is how incredibly HUNGRY I have become. It’s pretty scandalous how lustful I am for food. The other day, my husband Mike was telling me how he had lunch at Salty’s, one of my favorite Seattle restaurants, and I forced him to illustrate his meal in slow, vivid details. “Oh you had mashed potatoes? Were they creamy? Mama likes them rich and creamy. Yeah, you work it with your buttery carbs, you dirty side dish! YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE YOU HAVE A SECRET!”
Tonight, when Mike came home and said he wanted to go out to eat, I was half-hoping, then full-on hoping, then super-can-I-get-a-witness-hoping that he would suggest my favorite pregnancy source of nutrition: the Chinese buffet. I love a good plate of mushroom beef, washed down with another plate of jello and mandarin oranges buried in Cool Whip. I don’t care how high and mighty some women get when they’re pregnant, when they act like they’re above digging into a bag of French fries and all they eat is a bowl of spinach with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of flaxseeds on top. I bet those women have trouble pooping. It’s usually the root of so many problems.
Another development on the pregnancy front is that my mother just informed me that I should be expecting a package of maternity panties. Apparently, she has made the decision that my current underwear arrangements are not suited for pregnancy, even though Frederick’s of Hollywood mesh thongs seem to work just fine! So my mom had asked my sister to figure out my size and I can only imagine their discussions, how I must be large but how large? Extra large or 1XL?
I ask myself that every day when I get up from my seat on the bus. When I reach my stop, I stand up and look back at my seat, pretending that I’m checking for any items that I’ve left behind but really I’m gasping at how large of a butt imprint I’m able to create in one commute. It’s amazing! Like a traveling circus gave an elephant bus fare and taught it to use public transportation. It’s the only explanation for the vinyl crater I leave in my wake.
When my sister finally asked me what my size was, I referred her to the movie Jurassic Park and specifically the footprint the T-Rex leaves. If she could calculate the amount of fabric needed to cover that hole, she would have a good idea of my size. And I sincerely hope I get a pair in size P for "prehistoric," because once my body explodes in my third trimester, I can stomp around the house wearing a tattered sash that reads: “WHEN DINOSAURS RULED THE EARTH!”
Mona blogs at kirida dot com, where buffets are the way to her heart.
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