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.
Without question, my top two, first trimester, food aversions were the smell of coffee and the very thought of salmon. Ugh.
It is certainly interesting how a kumquat-sized developing-baby can wreak such havoc on a gal’s routine. But really. My life did an instantaneous 180. All of the things that I had once held dear were either, all of a sudden, off limits or nausea-inducing (or both). For about three weeks, I sustained myself on 4-L bottles of water and toast slathered with butter and topped with aged cheddar cheese. Yup. Not my usual mandate.