Encore

     You may as well know, I'm pregnant.  Thirteen weeks, to be exact.
     The first thing to go with me in pregnancy is my mental acuity.  When I was about five weeks along, as Clara was yelling that she wanted a bowl of chocolate pudding without having to first eat two mincing bites of the pork chop I'd prepared for her, Simon looked at me sagely and said, "There's a Rolling Stones song about this."
     I thought hard, trying to fit lyrics about a bowl of chocolate pudding before pork chops over a Rolling Stones beat.  Simon waited patiently, his eyes widening slightly.  I could almost hear him mentally counting, "One Mississippi...two Mississippi...three Mississippi," as he waited for me to catch on.
     Finally it hit me.  "Oh!" I exclaimed.  "'You Can't Always Get What You Want!'"

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     I got sick at about seven weeks.  Morning sickness is difficult to describe.  For me, it's a low-level state of green.  It doesn't keep me bed-ridden, but the sight of someone eating kale salad can bring me to my knees.
     I told myself when I found out I was pregnant again that this pregnancy was going to be healthy.  As opposed to my pregnancy with Clara, where each day was punctuated by trips to Starbucks for pastries and triple-chocolate hot chocolate.  And yet, seven weeks in, I found myself sitting over two Taco Bell tacos with extra sour cream, quivering with joy.
     At times, the nausea of morning sickness mixes with hunger in strange ways.  Simon and I went on a date to Five Guys soon after my trip to Taco Bell.  I had a cheeseburger.  A little while later, I threw it up.  I have to admit, it was delicious both going down and coming up.
 

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     When I'm pregnant, I develop a condition called "spinal lordosis."  It means that, as I get larger, my spine gets pulled further and further forward.  At nine months, I resemble a sway-backed mule, thick of rump and low of belly.  There's not a whole lot I can do to remedy it.  There are certain physical therapy exercises.  There are things I should avoid, like high heels and running and slouching in my chair.  And limbo-ing and hula-hooping.
     Having spinal lordosis means that I show a lot sooner than most.  It's because my belly is sticking out more than most pregnant women's do as my spine curves in.  It also means that I waddle much sooner.  When I was pregnant with Clara, and I went to the pool for some aqua jogging, the lifeguards always splashed me with water because they knew I could neither reciprocate nor run away.  I would yell and shake my fist at them as I lumbered along the pool deck, swollen and ungainly, my swimsuit straining to give me adequate coverage.

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     During pregnancy, food takes on a deep sense of poignancy for me.  When I eat, I put my arms around my plate or bowl, like an overweight kitty cupping her food dish with her paws.   I have a relationship with my food.  It soothes me.  I dream about shirtless men bringing to my desk at work crab dipped in butter, sour-dough rolls, clam chowder thick with cream.
     There are cookie crumbs on my bed sheets.  Dirty dishes by the bathtub.
     When I cry, which is rather often these days, I eat.  Because only food truly understands what I'm going through.
     For Valentine's Day my mom made me red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.  After Clara and I each had one, there were four left.  Wilbur got up on the table and ate all of them while I was upstairs changing Clara's shirt.  Plus the cake part of Clara's cupcake that she refused to eat.
     My rage and bitterness were unparalleled.  Since Clara was there, I couldn't tell him what I really thought of him, so I only said, "Bad, bad dog!" over and over.
     He came to me a few minutes later to apologize, head down, tail between his legs.
     "No, I'm not forgiving you," I told him under my breath.  "You probably didn't even taste those cupcakes.  I saw you swallow the last one whole!  It went down your throat in a big lump.  And you had cream cheese frosting on your fangs.  Cream cheese frosting is my favorite.  You are a very, very bad dog."
     A couple days later, my heart had softened enough to give him his dental hygiene bone, rather than throwing it at his head.  But my bitterness was renewed when Simon went on poop patrol in the backyard and reported back that he'd found a pile that was deep, velvety red and spongy in texture.
     "Those should have been our poops!" I hissed, throwing Wilbur a stony glare.