Are you sure there's just one in there? Week 22

My CHILD. Not children, CHILD, has an insatiable appetite. I think I have eaten like this at these times: 1. Growth spurt, 9th grade. 2. Freshman year of college, when I discovered I could get to the grocery store at any time of day or night. 3. Marathon training 1, because I didn't know what was going on, but all I could think about was pancakes. The other marathons were much more in control. 4. The day after our wedding, because everyone is right, you don't get to eat at your reception. 5. Now. Today one of my co-workers asked how I was doing, and when I said, "Yeah, I'm just trying to hang in there until lunch since I just had a snack about five minutes ago" she nodded her head in understanding, and told me that when she was pregnant, she used to go to bed thinking about what she was going to have for breakfast the next morning. Oh, no. I didn't even realize that that wasn't normal. Oh. NO. In fact, even as I type this (It's Friday night, so I'm getting ready for a little disco nap before heading to Matt's show), I'm concerned because we are completely out of soymilk, there aren't enough eggs to bake a cake, and I ate the last of the grapefruit this morning. It's a problem. So now I'm trying to figure out if realistically I can nap, get ready to go out, go to the store first, come back, and then head downtown, all while maintaining my coolness quotient. It's going to be a tight fit. Get it? A tight fit? Something else i may have mentioned before, but is worth mentioning again is that I am cyberstalking the following ladies: Kate Middleton Kim Kardashian The reason I am stalking them? Because I don't have time to watch E!...just kidding. I'm stalking them because I want to religious follow their baby bumps and compare them to mine. That's apparently another side effect of pregnancy. You find yourself staring sideways at other pregnant women, wondering how far along they are, and what they looked like to begin with. In Kate's case, it's super easy, and I get to sigh over not being able to afford the amazing maternity wardrobe she can have. It's okay, really. I'll take some onesies and maybe a car seat any day. But that doesn't make up for this afternoon, when I had a parent tell me, "Wow! You've really popped out! Are you sure it's just the one?" I don't think it's an exact quote but it is pretty close. The irony is, I would be really upset, and honestly you know how c-ra-zy we are with the hormones and cravings and whatnot, but I didn't even get that angry because I completely agree! Yes, it has popped out! Yes- this is completely insane! Who knew my belly could handle this??? I definitely didn't. I'm thinking what it comes down to is a lack of control that bothers us most of all. We think that we, as humans, have the ability to control both ourselves and our surroundings at any given time. Like, yes, there is a chocolate truffle sitting in front of me. But I don't have to pick it up. I could CHOOSE to walk away. Or, when you're in an accident and you want to flip out on the person that's messing with your schedule, but instead you CHOOSE to calmly ask why they were driving if their brakes were not working properly. With pregnancy, it's different. Don't worry- there is still a perfectly logical side of my brain that says "You can CHOOSE not to eat that!" But then, the baby already has a voice and what the baby says, the baby gets. Today, I didn't listen to the baby. I was feeling tired at the end of the day and briefly considered going home and napping, but instead pushed myself to go the gym. I had a terrible workout that didn't accomplish anything and actually made me feel more tired than I was already. I came home, ate, felt slightly better, but then realized I was (AM, actually) still not really listening to the baby. I feel like it's a foreshadowing of days to come. So, I'm leaving this post. And heading to bed (but just for a bit!) before heading out to be the pregnant lady at the bar (Ha! I used pregnant and bar in the same sentence!). At least I know I won't get carded at the door.