all & sundry

I did get confused when I came across commenter Mary's .02, which was "Wow! I hope this means you're going to stop smoking pot!" Wait just a MINUTE HERE...are you - are you saying smoking pot is something you shouldn't do while pregnant? Wow, indeed! All I can say is, it's a damn good thing I switched to crack.

I'm glad to have finally spilled the beans, because I have to say it hasn't been easy not talking about it. I mean, it's sort of impossible to concentrate on anything else. At any given moment, my thoughts basically break down like this:

I vaguely remember learning the term "buyer's cognizance" back in some dusty Pysch class, which had to do with owners of new cars reporting they suddenly noticed their make and model everywhere they drove. In a similar phenomenon, I see expectant mothers EVERYWHERE, and strollers, and Baby Bjorns, and babies - it's seriously crazy, I couldn't take my mind off the state of my belly if I wanted to.

Although, I did just go to the zoo yesterday. It's possible the demographic there is slightly misleading.

Our weekend also included not one, but two visits to Blue C Sushi in Fremont, which is seriously the most fun place to eat, ever. All the sushi is on a conveyor belt that rotates around the bar, so plate after plate of food slowly trundles past your seat - you can just grab whatever looks good to you, whenever you want (and lest you immediately begin to worry about me both smoking pot AND eating raw fish, let me assure you I stuck to the cooked options).

The conveyor belt delivery method rules, because not only do you get lots of choices, but you get them all now! Right now! Perfect for the unpredictable, diva-like behavior my stomach's been up to. Thankfully, I haven't experienced much serious nausea at all, but man oh man my relationship with food is on a whole new level.

When I'm hungry (which is ALL. THE. TIME) I start this internal process of flipping through meal ideas, one after the other, like I'm looking through one of those old Fisher Price View-Masters. Peanut butter sandwich? No. Click! Baked potato? No. Click! Tuna fish? GOD, NO. Click!

There's always something very specific that I really want, that I really really want, it's just a matter of figuring it out. Once my dream food plan coalesces (Kraft macaroni and cheese! With crackers! And a coconut popsicle for dessert!), actually sitting down and eating it is like reenacting the I'll-have-what-she's-having scene from When Harry Met Sally, complete with helpless moans of delight and, if Cheetos are involved, a great amount of lascivious finger-licking. I mean, when it's the right food, I can feel my entire body vibrate with joy over each and every bite. Amazing!

All good things must come to an end, though. The culmination of my joyous breakfast/lunch/dinner always has the same outcome: the sensation of being slowly inflated with a bicycle pump. Be it slice of fruit, wedge of cheese, or bite of granola, they all magically transform into Pop Rocks in my stomach and embark immediately upon the business of causing my waistbands to strain alarmingly and threaten to shoot buttons across the room. This is preparing me for motherhood in two ways - I now know the vital importance of burping, and I know exactly what my belly will look like at the 7-month mark.

Let us embrace the polite fiction that we at Sundry Mourning have not, in fact, implied that an excessive amount of farting is going on. Ahem.

I do have some queasiness from time to time, sort of like being mildly carsick, but I can usually ward that off with ginger ale or lemonade or, um, a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich (hey, whatever works, right?). I am ridiculously thankful for avoiding - so far - the sort of turbo-barfing that many people go through. I mean, I have a long-ass morning commute on a freeway; thank you JEBUS for not making me throw up in my glove box every day. And the daily prenatal vitamin - you know, the one so big you have to unhinge your jaws in order to swallow it; the one that's positively blasting an unholy vitaminy reek from its every fucking pore; the gift that keeps on giving, being as how you can taste it for a good five minutes after it slithers, cackling, down your throat? I can't imagine how much worse that thing would be if I were already in an urpy frame of mind.

All in all, I feel pretty good (it's all the crack!). Although if you had a tube of Clearasil with you, I wouldn't mind a dab. Or ten.

:::

I've posted zoo photos before, but here are a few I liked from Sunday's outing:

<- back ::: next - >