How the hell do I proclaim that I love to cook, and then end up with weeks like this when I don't feel that inspiration to creat something in the kitchen, anything? I don't know what it was that hit me this week. Monday night, it was the easiest dish on the planet, my chili; lunch was Chipotle. Tuesday, Hubby was off to teach, so I was left to my devices - it was yoga class, followed by Ethiopian (miser watt) take-out. Oh, and lunch, I stopped by a cafe near home, on my way from one meeting to another, didn't even stop in the house to make something to eat - I got an egg salad, with a mango smoothie, and an eclair for dessert. Yesterday, lunch was the left-over Ethiopian, and dinner, Hubby and I decided to make some non-nitrite non-nitrate hot dogs, and I made a salad of carrots and cukes. The ultimate of fast-food, easy-food weeks. And seriously, I do love to cook. Really.
And now we end on today. Breakfast, I started off with a pear, then followed up a couple of hours later with an onion bagel. Lunch was ramen, one of my favorite brands from Taiwan, but definitely not the most healthy choice. Dessert was some huge globular grapes (so good!). I had an apple in the afternoon, some crispy Indian snacks, and on my way home, I munched down an Asian apple pear. By the time I got home, I really wasn't even all that hungry. So dinner was cereal, with raisins. Yeah, just the way to follow this week's trend.
Who knows, maybe that's why this week I feel like everyone's tearing at a piece of me. I think tomorrow, I'm going to refocus on myself, regroup, and cook again. Just right now, I really have no idea what I'm going to cook.
In other news... the belly is starting to pop a bit. We're hitting 16 weeks, so 4 months in. Almost at the half-way point, and this point, my weight started going up. People started to notice the little bulge, and different reactions come from all sides. Some regarded to my impending news and bulge with a reaction of fragility, as if I might break at any second, and immediately wouldn't let me do so much as lift a finger (much less listen to me gloat about being able to ride 14 miles or continue regular yoga). Some, with an air of discontent or disapproval at the news - I'm not sure yet which it is - that they try to hide with a fake smile at the news. Some immediately want to know how I'm feeling and whether or not I'm puking my brains out (sorry kids, no puking yet, but give me a Jager and I'll show you puking). Some, of course, regarded my news with excitement and joy. I regard each reaction with understanding - they are, each, imparting their hope that a) I know what I'm doing, and b), the baby that results will bring to this world more joy that the world can give it. It is just that little bit of hope, that keeps everyone going, and I can only hope that this baby will carry that hope for the world.
However, the expectation that an expecting mother should have to suffer for nine months in order to bring life into the world, I think that's an expectation that is unrealistic. Through the start of this process, I'm learning the truth, whether external or internal, that (surprise surprise) everyone is different. Expectations that every pregnant woman is going to puke like a supermodel for 9 months, immediately consume everything in sight and look like a walking chicklet, or suffer from some sort of extensive physiopsychosomatic malais to prove their worth as a life-carrying being are unfair. I think it's enough that we have to carry a feeding life form for 9 months, one that we will worry about for the rest of their lives, without having to satisfy the world's expectations of what "properly pregnant" should be. Haven't we all pushed categorized and molded each other aplenty?
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