Last night, a Taco Bell commercial proved to me that pregnancy cravings are bullshit.
Allow me to elaborate: while pregnant with Isabella, the only sustenance my body required for days on end was Honey Nut Cheerios. I ate them with milk, I ate them dry, I ate them as dessert, I ate them as a meal. They were my lifeline, HN Cheerios or bust.
With Annika? It was Chip’s Ahoy chocolate chip cookies. No fakie brands, no Chunks Ahoy, no homemade.
Maëlle was a wee bit more demanding in there: Baconators. All the time. All day long. All night long.
We called these “cravings” because I was pregnant and wanted them and was clearly out of my head with the crazy. The folks who loved me were loathe to deny me my precious desires, lest I cry/ puke/ snap/ faint/ otherwise lose my shit. Cut to 2am one weekday somewhere deep into trimester two with Maëlle: Wendy’s commercial on the television.
::poke, poke, nudge, nudge, kick!::, “Honey! I really need a Baconator. Like, I can’t sleep. And I need sleep.”
“Wha…? I have to work in the morning. I will not get you a Baconator. Go have some juice.”
::dumbfounded look of annoyance:: “Juice?? Does it taste like BACON? I swear, I’ll eat the whole thing, just can you please? I mean…I’d go myself but you don’t want me going out at dark alone…” (this is key, play the helpless preggo card at all costs. It’s so infrequently in use in your life, you must take advantage.)
“You won’t eat it. I’ll go out, all the way there, and you’ll be asleep or have heartburn halfway through the burger.”
“Not true! How dare you!”
“If you promise me, PROMISE ME, you’ll eat the entire combo: burger, fries AND drink, I’ll get it for you. If you reneg, never again.”
“I will regret this.”
You betta believe I certainly did finish that whole combo, I wasn’t about to ruin a good thing…or a few good things. Well, except my stomach…cause Wendy’s at 3am while growing a fetus that throws hot burning shards of lava up your throat in the form of heartburn? The smartz. I haz dem.
This brings us to the present day…well, yesterday. 11:30pm. WhateverchannelweforgottoDVR on the television. Taco Bell commercial.
::poke, poke, nudge, nudge, kick!:: “Honey! I want a taco.”
“Not on your fucking life.”
“But…remember that time…?”
“Not on your fucking life.”
My belly? Unsatisfied. Why? Because it was not accompanied by a BABY. But my stomach could have cared less. I wanted that taco last night just as much as I wanted that Baconator. No distinction between the two. My mouth watered, my stomach gurgled, I could taste the cheese…but no taco was awarded.
In truth, no one really wants to eat Taco Bell though. I mean, you really think you do. And then you do. And then? No. Just…no.
So fine, no baby means I’m not allowed to call it a craving. Now I just have to call it what it is: mindless, gluttonous stuffing of the face out of pure animal desire and weak abilities to filter my thoughts as pure lunacy.
I liked the word “craving” much better.