Yesterday, I went to the grocery store and bought myself a jar of pickles. It was the only item in my cart. And I felt like the quintessential preggo-stereotype.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a spotlight shining directly on the jar-in-question as I tried to fast-and-furious my way through the check-out line. It bothered me.
Probably because I don’t like to conform.
Fact: I am still adjusting to the appetite of a preggo.
One minute my tummy is content and then the next, wham!, starrrvvvviiiinnnngg.
And I must admit that I am really trying to maintain a mostly-healthy lifestyle. Now that I’m out of my elastic-bottomed, men’s-sized, sweats (at least during daylight hours) and off of the couch, I have rejoined the gym. woot! for small victories. I am also being mindful (most of the time) of my diet. And by diet, I don’t mean diet. I mean the foods that I’m fast and furiously shoveling down my gullet.
The very first time I ever planted herbs, I planted a basil plant in a pretty little pot, sat it outside my apartment, watered it, loved it, doted on it…
…until the time came to make pesto. And I cut him down at. the. knees. As in, literally. Nearly all the way down to his fragile little roots.