Apparently being pregnant suddenly also gives you the excuse to eat bhuja mix with banana ice cream and not even feel weird about it. It means craving mushrooms on porridge is totally normal. And that little dried up anchovy you found at the bottom of the pantry? Just eat it! Don’t wonder why, just do it. Because some sick, twisted voice in your head is telling you it’s a good idea to. And if you don’t have brandy snaps in the house or a jar of capers to chow down, that’s a perfectly legit reason to sit on the kitchen floor bawling your eyes out at three in the morning. And hey, once we’ve eaten the entire contents of the pantry, let’s go throw it up five minutes later so we can have another good old cry.
If there’s one thing I’ve always been good at, it’s eating. Being pregnant only seems to boost that superpower by like 20 points. In my culture, family equals love, and love equals food. Or something like that. All I know, is that when I’m not eating or cooking, I’m thinking about what to eat next. Any poor soul to ever have dated me knows that there’s only one way to my heart, and that’s through my stomach. So tell me I’m pregnant and suddenly hand me a list of foods I can’t eat and we have a problem.
Seafood is my number one love. Prawn dumplings.. Salmon with cream cheese and capers.. Shark steaks.. Smoked fish pie.. Muscles in white wine… Okay, I gotta stop before I drool all over my keyboard. Wait… What do you mean I can’t eat raw fish? …I think a little piece of me just died inside.
And don’t even get me started on not being able to grab Subway while I’m in town. How am I meant to go on without chicken fillet subs in my life? Ugh. I know it’s probably for my own benefit too that my diet is controlled, but when the little voice in my head starts screaming at me, making ridiculous demands, what am I meant to do? It seems stupid to Google each and every item of food I pick off a shelf, because not only is each body and baby different, but so are the opinions you find online.
I mean sure, if there’s whipped cream or a chicken left sitting out, it’s not like I’m gonna go eating it. But some days I can’t stand the sight of milk and other days I’m drinking two litres of the stuff. So I’m pretty sure my body and it’s creepy little voices will let me know what’s “not okay.”