Eat Me

The second trimester is, so far, everything it is cracked up to be. I have more energy, an inspiringly high libido and creative spurts all over the place. And I am starving. Ravenously hungry. Each pang seems like a normal hunger at first, and then the Alien *demands* a little bit more, a little over the top. Nothing I wouldn’t have done in the past, just …. more.

In my quest to seem like a good hippy, I eat a lot of produce and I love fresh fruits and vegetables. So I drooled and patted myself on the back for chopping a seasonal, local, heirloom Jonathan apple into my granola – mind you: packaged, store-made, oily, sugary granola, but not a bad breakfast. Until an hour later, when I would have killed certain people for a Kit-Kat or pumpkin muffin. I was murderous for a seasonal treat. I couldn’t possibly sit down to write without another pre-lunch snack.

This time a Golden Ginger apple, juicy and pear-ish, that went equally well with the faux-nutritious granola and soy milk. Lunch, half an hour later, a full hour before noon, was an Empire apple – red, yellow, tart and almost as crisp as the granola. I licked the vaguely healthy flax seeds form the bowl. I was pleased when a pumpkin seed stuck between my teeth, prolonging the sweet, nutty bliss of chewing.

I gave in to the bullying of the Little Creature, admitting that I wanted more sugar than even fresh, amazing pommes could provide. Now that I can feel The Semi-Autonomous Region kicking and rolling around in ways that are probably not just farts brewing, I feel more willing to cater to its cravings. In the name of being a good placental host, I went to the newly unpacked moving box of kitchen goods and hefted the family-size peanut butter jar (that I had considered foolishly leaving behind) all the way to the couch. A full bag of chocolate chips tagged along for the ride. Two spoonfuls is all I needed to save the neighbor lady. I didn’t answer the door when she knocked to give me mis-delivered mail. It was the only way that I could guarantee her safety. I may have eaten her.

So, that’s what pregnancy has done to me and my neighbors. I cave in and eat processed sugar and the occasional mail carrier. What is my pregnancy doing to others? Dear Partner is caring and concerned and overwhelmed by nesting instincts. My mother has declared which yarns she has purchased for projects that will keep her happy for months. My brother has stopped calling, taking insult at my breeding so far from where we grew up. My Grandmother can’t remember that her stuffed bear isn’t a living dog, but she has memorized the due date and pauses form ranting about her evil nurses long enough to talk baby. Bazillions of friends send well-wishes that run the gamut from touchy-feely to feisty mocking.

I love chicks who know that they don’t want kids. I’ve always loved ankle-biters, but I adore safe abortions and millions of varieties of birth control and women who know they are not interested in being absorbed by the boogers, poops and fevers of a squalling teethers. But just like not all parents appreciate non-breeders awareness of their child-hatred, not on non-breeders appreciate my badass new shape.

“Ughn, Fatty, you want to punch those people who say you should be glowing?”

Hey, but, uhm, I am glowing. My belly rocks. I haven’t gained any unhealthy weight. Sure, there are patches of dry, red skin and I’ve put off a haircut for far too long, but that’s normal. Yeah, I am wearing elastic pants, but I still have legs good enough to walk across a city before nap time, and don’t my huge tits make up for the un-bikini silhouette?

I always knew that I was in the small minority that thought pregnant ladies were hot hot hot time to rip their clothes off and do whatever their hormones asked of me. Mmmm, curves that don’t stop, ravishing skin and hair, the ultimate female form. Lick them from head to toe like a Venus out of a painting. Plump, juicy, hummina!

I’ve always wanted to do dirty things to pregnant women, and assumed that there were a few others like me. They post on Craig’s List. They are interested in sensuality goddesses of fertility. But, as always, I wonder if the a guys out there that I would bang are interested in a bonus hole and awesome melons attached to a boy. Not only do I have a random boy-ish factor, but I wonder if the men interested in pregnant booty calls know about the exhaustion, the dry skin, the bumps of fat that come with the jugs, the absurdly dark nipples and the protective Partner that comes running to check on me if I stub a toe or make a slightly uncomfortable face.

Maybe I should just settle. I should eat whatever I please, but make myself in the mood for girl tricks instead of men. Perhaps fewer hairy feminists would notice or dis-enjoy the realities of a gargantuan, gestating eater of unimaginative snacks. Though, I doubt even they would overlook the cannibalism that should happen if my neighbor rings the doorbell while I am holding a bottle of katsup.

I just ate cold lasagna leftovers.

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