Thursday, January 10, 2013

Follow Your Dreams

(Dedicated to Aly Evans.) 

I am allegedly 17 weeks and 2 days into my first pregnancy, and I have come to the conclusion that pregnancy is a myth.  

This is made up. 

Despite the small pile of positive pregnancy tests on my bathroom counter, I didn't even start to believe in the remote possibility that I might be pregnant until I had my first OB appointment at 10 weeks of my alleged pregnancy.  Looking at the squirmy little form on the screen awakened in me the slightest hint that it might actually be the case that there was, in fact, a being growing inside of me.  This feeling has since worn off.  

Yes, my belly is growing.  But that could also be the doughnuts I had for "second breakfast" yesterday.   And speaking of those doughnuts, I should mention that one of my greatest disappointments in this "pregnancy" is that I have had very little in the way of cravings.  

Perhaps I'm just doing them wrong.  I've always thought that these "pregnancy cravings," as they are so called, were involuntary, sudden, and undeniable--and strange.  That I might be sitting at my desk in the office (I have neither a desk nor an office) at midnight (I'm in bed by 11), and suddenly think of the mythical pickles and ice cream.  Hence, I would alert my devoted husband of this necessity, and he would run to the nearest 24-hour store to satisfy my need, being the gem that he is.  After some thought, though, I'm wondering if they aren't a bit more calculated than that.  Perhaps I'm just supposed to use my position as the woman carrying my husband's child to exert my authority over him, to test the lengths he is willing to traverse to accommodate his Beloved.  

In this scenario, it plays out as follows: 

I think to myself, "I like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, but I have none at the house right now."  Now, under normal circumstances, I would then say to myself, "Oh, well," and either find a viable alternative or give up the idea altogether.  As a Pregnant Individual, however, I take a different approach.  I say to my Other Half, "Good heavens me!  If I don't have a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup very soon, I think the baby will grow an extra arm!" And he, being overly concerned for my well-being, will dash out to the store and buy as many Reese's Cups as are available.  As I munch, I plot my next "craving."  

My apologies to the rest of womankind if I have just outed a conspiracy.  I was not informed, and thus have not been benefiting from it, so I feel no loyalty. 

Pregnancy dreams are another thing causing me disappointment.  They have been painfully normal, like last night's gem:  

"Rachel Eats Enchiladas While Chaperoning a Youth Conference Activity at Church." Yawn. 

This is kind of what they looked like. 

Even my most interesting dream of late was fairly boring.  Andy and I were vacationing in Paris (which, for those of you who have never been, is very much like a small amusement park, if my dream is accurate).  We waited in line to ride a train or roller coaster from which we could see the city, but what I really wanted to do was to go to the top of the rotating restaurant.  It wasn't just any ordinary rotating restaurant, either.  It would also periodically change its orientation from horizontal to vertical, making it part restaurant, part thrill ride. At $100 a head, though, it was outside our price range. 

In my dream, I remembered the first piece of mine ever published: a little paragraph in the Greensheet when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade (this is real-life true, in fact).  To respond to the question "What would your dream vacation be?" I answered that I would like to go to Paris, where I would climb the Eiffel tower, and then eat at a famous pastry shop.  (Still true.)  So, back to my dream, I told Andy that we would have to live my dream and find a bakery.  I really wanted a croissant (craving?).  

The funny thing is that I didn't recall any of this until I saw a commercial featuring a croissant on TV at the gym.  I suppose I should have taken that opportunity to go to the bakery 'round the corner and make my Beloved buy me a croissant . . . "for the baby."  Blast.  

And now, I want a croissant again.  "Sweeeeeeetie?"  

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