Please excuse me—and my blog—for being a bit obsessed with food lately. What with the constant fatigue and nausea, it's sort of all I can wrap my brain around these days. The constant needing to eat but being grossed out by the thought of most foods but really needing to eat now is shockingly consuming, as it were. (Even doing laundry has proven too daunting to tackle—which means that when I do tackle that shit, it will take four or five consecutive days to get it all done by which point, as any mom knows, it will be well past time to do it again.)
Today my "new" food "discovery" was fried chicken and baked beans and a nice, fluffy, nutrient-free dinner roll from Oprah's favorite fried chicken joint--which, yes, is located in Seattle. I never liked fried chicken—I don't like the taste of the breaded stuff—until I tried Ezell's. It's crispy and spicy and doesn't taste like a vat of old oil. And it smells like heaven—even (especially?)—to a pregnant lady. Last time around, I either hadn't tried the chicken yet or was scared of it exacerbating my pregnancy-induced indigestion issues, but I'd stop by for beans—the only baked beans I've ever liked—and rolls and just to bask in the delicious scent of a happy Oprah. Today I went whole hog—er, poultry—and got some chicken, too. Oh. My. God. It was exactly the thing the tiny beast growing inside me wanted for lunch. He(*) was all, Yes! Finally! You get where I'm coming from!
The nice cashier explained that I would save money if instead of ordering my items individually I got a "Snack Pack" with beans in place of the french fries. I thanked her for the tip and began to step aside to wait for my food when she said, "Remember, hon. Next time you're here, tell them 'Snack Pack with beans.'" And I was all, Yes! Finally! Someone gets where I'm coming from! Of course I will be back—many times over. And bless you, purveyors of crazy-delicious fried food, for calling a meal that probably contains a billion calories a "snack pack." No wonder Oprah loves you!
In other news (sort of), I had my first prenatal check-up and ultrasound today, and everything's A-okay. Just one little critter in there (praise Jesus and the God of Single Births), with a strong, wildly apparent heartbeat and little arm buds that will be used to hit his big sister, like, tomorrow. (Or at least that's what I tell myself to make this gross trimester not seem so interminably looooooooooooong. I seem to recall the first "trimester" lasting about 18 weeks last time around... Nooooooooooooooooo... Just simply: no.)
Like last time, I'm assuming my offspring is a boy since that's what my husband's family tends to produce and since that's what everyone and their mother-in-law tells me I must be having since my nausea isn't as bad as last time when—surprise!—I had a girl. I may or may not find out the critter's sex down the road, but chances are I'll refer to him or her as a "him" in the meantime, if for no other reason than to save some precious finger strength. (Also, honestly, after having a girl—knowing how to have a girl—the idea of having a boy is a little daunting. So I like to begin the emotional preparations early. Also the practical ones—any tips on where to buy cute boy's clothing and such are much appreciated, even if I never have cause to put them to use!)