I’m 10 weeks pregnant, and currently on the bread diet.
I know. I’m not supposed to do that.
I’m supposed to be taking my prenatal vitamins, eating my green leafys, avoiding processed foods, rubbing oils on my belly, exercising daily at 65-85% effort, singing to the baby, and relishing this precious glowing moment in my life.
I’m doing the best I can, okay? It’s my third kid, I kind of know what I’m in for, so you can take your opinions about my diet and the fact that I get out of breath having a conversation about the DNC and suck a big fat one.
I’m an athlete, and a yogi. I live and breathe movement. I love clean eating and I actively avoid processed food. My kid’s first experience with white bread was at my Grandmother’s house after they were in kindergarten. They wore cloth or organic unbleached $80 diapers and I breastfed for over a year and wore them in a sling and took them to mommy-and-me classes and did all the shit that the books told me to do and a bunch of things that they didn’t. I am not unaware of the possibilities and choices I have to increase the health and wellbeing of my offspring.
I am, however, tired and sick as fuck. Just writing this makes me want to take a nap. Well, right after I eat some more bread. Because bread is the only thing my body seems to tolerate right now, and rather than fight with it and demand it eat some eggs and fucking spinach for breakfast, I’m just going to eat some.more.fucking.white.bread.
We go out to eat, and I’m over there ordering like “I’ll just have the bread basket. Actually, I’ll have two bread baskets. With butter. Just bring me a whole stick. K thanks.” What? I’m a cheap date. Shut up.
I order a tuna sandwich, minus the tuna, plus an extra slice of bread. I’ll eat peanut butter and jelly, minus the peanut and the jelly. Since I can’t have any fucking lunchmeat anyway, my turkey sandos these days are comprised of two generous slices of ciabatta slathered with salted butter and eaten with a shit eating grin. The grilled cheese I thought I could eat last week gave me diarrhea for the entire next day so I’m currently having grilled bread instead.
You see how I am maybe not able to get down with the nutritional regimine to which the good mommies adhere? I CAN’T DO IT. Cannot.
If it’s a choice between an entire day on the couch mimicking a narcoleptic with a hangover, or just packing around a fresh baguette while I get shit done, then I side with France every time.
It will pass, this part. I’ll eventually be able to sit next to my husband at the dinner table and not dry heave looking at his meal. I’ll be able to walk into the kitchen without it triggering a gag reflex. I might even be able to eat real food at a restaurant again, and look the server in the eye. You know, until the third trimester hits and heartburn wraps me in its angry talons and no one wants to hangout anymore. Assholes.
So until then, bread. Approach with bread. Retreat by leaving bread. Win points with grassfed butter. Bread. Bread. BREAAAAAAAD.
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