Lately Eliza is finding her words. She calls milk “nilk,” cats “neow” and her dolls “bebe.” She calls me “me-me,” Seth “da” and Imogene, “mo mo.” When she wants a bite of whatever I’m eating, she says “bite, bite, bite” reaching her little hand into the air toward me and furrowing her brow as though I’ve not fed her in weeks. She keeps shouting “bite” (why say it once when you can say it 16 times!) until I give in or gobble up the small portion of food I’ve managed to keep for myself and say, “all gone.” Although it may sound like it, I’m not depriving this voracious little angel of sustinence. Most of the time I’m trying to keep her from eating the crap that I’m craving these days.
I wish I were one of those pregnant women who crave oranges or nuts, that my sweet tooth could be sated with a nice fresh apple or a glass of juice. But I haven’t proven that lucky. While I try, trust me I do, my pregnant body is less of a temple and more of a shrine to the white powdered donut. [Read More]