Butter Chicken Negates my Self Control...Again.

I hate to admit it, but I think I might be guilty of buying into a pregnancy stereotype because I honestly expected my 3rd trimester to be even more about food than the 2nd was. I imagined I would be a hearty eater right up until the last month or so when (presumably) my innards would be so cramped by my uterus that eating would become more of a grudgingly performed chore than one of life's little pleasures. After all, I thought, why wouldn't that be the case? Bug is now around 3 pounds (give or take) and I know she's supposed to at least double that before she pops out in that short and painless fun-fest otherwise known as labour and birthing. Hey, I don't know what your birthing experiences were like or what you've been told by women who've gone through it, but MY labour and birthing will be EXACTLY as I've just described it or my OB will be forced to figure out another way of breathing after I rip out his lungs.

So if I'm 9 weeks away from my EDD (estimated due date) and Bug isn't anywhere close to what will be her full size at birth, it seems reasonable to expect I will need to be able to eat a fair bit right now, hey? Well surprisingly, that isn't the case. Over the last week, I've found that if I take the noshes I manage to choke down during the day and add them up, they don't compare to the total daily volume of food I was scarfing down so easily just a couple of weeks ago. If I try to eat more, I suffer. Whooo Boy, do I suffer! Let's just say Tums became a 5th food group until I figured this out.

So why is this an issue? Well...I was actually doing pretty well adjusting to the necessary change in my eating habits until I bumped into my old nemesis - butter chicken - today at lunch. My good friend Pat and I met up for a midday meal at our fave Indian takeaway joint and I completely lost my head. I ate about 4 times more in one sitting than was advisable. I just couldn't help myself. I went with the best of intentions but when I got that plate of butter chicken and that big hunk of naan (Indian flat bread) in front of me, I went into a kind of trance and ate every bloody bite. Doh! Now? I'm "sitting" here at my desk (hunching is more like it) wishing with every fiber of my being that I was able to just fast forward through the rest of my day because I'm in so much pain I can't even sit up straight.

Strangely enough, they don't make Tums in "idiot strength" so I'm afraid I'm stuck with this until further notice. It should make my visit to the dentist tonight a real joy.

88 More Days Until the Fun-ectomy

bor·ing [ báwring ] adj. Definition: uninteresting: stimulating no interest or enthusiasm.

Synonyms: dull, monotonous, tedious, uninteresting.

So I think it is safe to say that most of you reading my fantabulous blog know that marriage is not the death of fun, riiiiiight?

I mean, I know plenty of people who are married (myself included) who haven't magically morphed into June and whatshisname Cleaver (Egad! He was apparently so boring I can't even remember his name).

So if that stereotype is a load of crap, why then do some people still buy into its sister prejudice about moms?
Why do some women feel the pressure to become a Stepford Mom?
And more importantly, why are some women actually smug because they have voluntarily undergone a fun-ectomy?

Thankfully I only know one Stepford Mother (and no, she isn't one of you!).

I can say with 100% certainty that Bug doesn't herald the demise of my love affair with sexy cha-cha shoes, she won't kill my appetite for girlie martinis or fruity blender drinks, and she certainly won't be the one and only topic of my future conversations.

I'll be a mom, yes, and things will be different for me in so many ways but that doesn't mean I'll become a different person. I promise all of you that I'll continue to be an overly-opinionated, PS3 playing, mani/pedi loving, Martini drinking shoe-a-holic with a vampire fetish although now I'll be one that operates on far less sleep and who may occasionally accessorize her party clothes with dried baby barf.

Now that's fun with a capital "F"!