Never-ending hunger.

When I was a junior in college and the features editor at my university's newspaper, one of my co-workers and I went on a food-run to Sonic. We walked back into the office and sat down at the conference table to eat. I dug into my chicken fingers and ranch and fries and looked up to see the editor-in-chief, an incredibly smart, accomplished, capable senior named Dana staring down at me.

"How do you eat like that and stay so skinny?" she asked, looking incredulous.

"I have Crohn's disease," I replied, turning my health into a joke as I so often do around my peers.

And, from her, my superior at work, a girl I looked up to, admired and always wanted to emulate: "I want Crohn's disease." And she wasn't kidding.

I've always joked that if my Crohn's magically went away, I would gain 200 pounds likethat. Because I've spent my life trying to gain weight, trying to not throw up what I eat, I lack any self-control. I only know how to make myself eat more.

This past week, since my stomach has started to feel better, I have not been able to stop eating. I CAN'T STOP. And I can't stop caring, because no matter what people say about pregnant women being able to eat whatever they want, doctors, the FDA, and the incredibly judgmental population of the world says otherwise. I feel like a pig. And I can't help it.

The thing about this hunger that makes it different is that I'm not just eating out of boredom. I am seriously, legitimately, hungry. When I stop eating, it's usually because I'm out of food or an easy way to get more.

I ate a sandwich when I got up for work this morning at 3 a.m. I ate a blueberry muffin at work at about 6. I just ate some Easy Mac at 11. And I'm meeting a friend for lunch at 12, and my stomach is still growling.

I know the easy solution is to just pick up some carrot sticks instead of sandwiches, muffins, and Easy Mac, but that is what my body wants. And did I mention I lack any semblance of skill when it comes to self-control? I have none. My body only knows to eat. Eat eat eat eat. If your stomach can take it, then fill it until it can't. It's all I know. But this is the first time I can actually eat the entire sandwich, every crumb of that muffin, and every last noodle in that bowl of Easy Mac. Usually my stomach wimps out a third of the way through.

I'M STILL HUNGRY.

Read more...

Insatiable hunger and buttoning my pants.

I have been insatiably hungry recently, and I'm not saying that lightly. I literally CANNOT stop eating. On Wednesday, my day off, I did nothing except sit around and read and relax. And eat. And eat. And eat. The only thing that could stop me was sleep, so when I finally drifted off to slumber I instead dreamt about what I would eat next. And then I woke up at 11 p.m. for work and made a sandwich. I haven't been this hungry since the first time I was put on Prednisone--I was 14, weighed under 80 pounds, and found myself in throes of steroid-induced hunger eating 9--no exaggeration--grilled cheese sandwiches in a row.

None of my clothes fit. None of them. And I know I'm not supposed to care, because it's the miracle of life and some women can't even have babies and kids are dying in Africa but, I'm sorry, I sort of do. Society can't just expect us to turn off our I'm-getting-fat switch because we're pregnant. The human (and hormonal) mind doesn't work like that.

No matter how excited I am about this child, it doesn't erase the frustration of trying to find something to wear when none of your pants will button and even your stretchiest leggings feel like a cruel torture device.

My stomach is still somewhere in the etherworld between chub and with-child. I don't feel confident enough in my bump to let it all hang out, because, to me, it just looks like I'm bloated beyond belief.

I broke down a few weeks ago and ordered two pairs of maternity jeans but they still haven't arrived, and after searching through my inbox I couldn't find a confirmation e-mail and am now wondering if I ever even ordered them at all. I know I was at work when I did it, and it was maybe 4 in the morning. I swear it wasn't a mirage. But my closet still lacks anything that truly fits.

Being pregnant so far feels a lot like that hour after Thanksgiving dinner. You've stuffed your face beyond belief, and suddenly you're aware of every single seam in every single article of clothing on your body. Your breath feels stiffled by the fullness. Even unbuttoning your pants doesn't fully remedy the discomfort. The only true remedy is another piece of pie.

Read more...

What happens when I try to cook.

I've been trying so hard the past week to cook, because we can no longer afford to get takeout every night and because I'd really like to hone some sort of skill before we're an actual family, therefore taking some of the burden off of Jason and his sole cooking abilities. I cannot cook. I just can't. I lack that innate sensibility. I'm terrified of ovens. I'm even more terrified of crackling olive oil. I can never cook chicken all the way through without completely over-drying it, and I always end up letting Jason finish the job when I try to start something even remotely complicated.

Jason has that innate sensibility. He knows how long to cook chicken, or what spices to put on steak, or what might taste good on top of that pasta.

But I do have one thing going for me in the kitchen. I have always wanted, badly, to be a good cook. Maybe it comes from more than a decade of obsessing about my digestive health, but I am equally obsessed with food. I love it. I can't eat the same thing every night. I want to be creative, to try new things, to eat and eat and eat (can you tell I'm hungry right now?).

So the past week, on the days I've been off work, anyway, I've been making Jason dinner for once. I've made hot and spicy pork chops (cough, shake and bake, cough) with prosciutto-wrapped asparagus. I've made tacos (good ones, I might add). I've made ravioli with artichoke and tomato sauce and sauteed spinach with homemade (yes, as in not shake and bake) bruschetta. And, last night, I actually felt downright proud of myself: Spanish rice with huevos and cheesy tortillas, thanks to a recipe from my ever-more-so culinarily skilled friend Morgan. She's probably laughing if she's reading this, because the recipe is probably among the simplest things in her repertoire, but my making it successfully had Jason looking at me like "who are you and what have you done with my fiance who can't cook plain chicken?"

I almost--almost--broke down and called Morgan to walk me through how to make an over-easy egg, but I restrained and winged it. And I succeeded. And I'm proud.

Tonight, I'm craving this chicken my parents used to make. Suddenly it hit me that Campbell's cream of mushroom soup was probably involved. So I google recipes with cream of mushroom soup and I swear to god find the exact one my parents made 15 years ago. Martha Stewart could probably make it while blindfolded and getting insider trading tips over the phone and hand-dying an Easter egg in all sorts of crazy designs at once. And if I actually told Morgan what this recipe entailed, she would, I'm sure, laugh again. It is probably THE SIMPLEST THING YOU COULD EVER COOK.

And yet, in the past ten minutes, I've had to google the following, just to make sure I don't screw it up (yes, this is verbatim what I had to google):

Do you add water to cream of mushroom soup for casserole?
Can you use minute rice in cream of mushroom soup casserole?
Does the size of the pan really matter when making a casserole?
(And, then, after BettyCrocker.com told me that, no, I couldn't use minute rice in a casserole and ohmygod HOW COULD I HAVE NOT KNOWN THAT????):
Can you cook cream of mushroom chicken casserole without rice?

Now, with all my questions answered, I'm off to cook the world's simplest recipe (the minute rice will be made on the side).

See why I need some serious practice before baby comes? Otherwise it will have to endure a mother who serves raw chicken and burnt rice mushroom casserole.

Read more...

A day in the life of someone who's 12 weeks, 3 days pregnant.

Update! I ate the sandwich. Aren't you just so totally interested? And in the process of reheating it in the oven to avoid listeriosis, I burned the hell out of my fingers and burned the bread beyond recognition. But I still ate it.

I can't get a massage today, because they're scared that if they touch my foot I just might pop a fetus out, oh, 28 weeks early, or I might spontaneously combust and cover them in contagious pregnancy-juices that mean that they will now be the ones who have to throw up everyday and get fat and eat every hour and take care of a human.

I was supposed to have lunch with someone, but that would mean I would have to A) take a shower right now, and B) drive half an hour to Murfreesboro. My couch is just really comfy. And I have to fall back asleep by at least six tonight so I can function at work tonight at 12 AM.

I already had 2 donuts when I woke up 2 hours ago.

And I have a leftover turkey, brie and apple sandwich (I'm gonna heat it up! and the brie is pasteurized! Don't throw things at me).

But, alas, it's only 9:30 in the morning. That's not an acceptable hour to eat brie, is it?

And this is the main predicament of my day. I'll probably be giving in within the next 10 minutes. After that, maybe--just maybe--I'll shower.

Get ready for a soul-searching "my life sucks and now consists of scheduling brie and putting off showers and canceling lunches and I'm so alone and I'm sitting here in my fiance's shirt who's 6 foot 2 and 200 lbs and I'm 5 foot 1 and 100 pounds and it's the same thing I put on when I got home from work YESTERDAY morning and I'm already letting myself go" post--coming soon.

Read more...

What happens when you're working at 2:40AM and Pregnant and Hungry.

I was so determined to eat some Peppercorn Ranch Sun Chips just now, that I squandered away three dollars of my hard-earned money.

I put 75 cents in and pushed the button. It started to make its way out, but stopped just short of falling to my emaciated fingers.

I walked all the way back to my desk, found 75 more cents, walked all the way back to the break room, and put the coins in. Pushed the button.

This one comes all the way out, but gets caught (literally DANGLING!) on the next row. I watch in horror as the first bag of chips--it's somehow now wedged between the Twinkies to its left--doesn't budge.

This is the point any sane person would give up, or at least start investing in a different MSG-tinged snack.

But not me. Not a hormonal, pissed off, HUNGRY pregnant woman. I deserved those damn Sun Chips.

I followed this pattern TWO more times (walking back to my desk to get more change between each) until all four of the bags came tumbling down.

I grabbed two--because two I can explain to my coworkers, but four is downright crazy--and left the others for some lucky asshole to find in the morning.

Read more...