Here’s a pretty typical day for me lately, except they usually end with a little more effort at dinner. Today ended on a bad note, so I’m giving myself an A for Effort and calling iceberg lettuce a vegetable. Feel free to pretend instead that I ended the evening with a giant bowl of ancient grains dotted with seasonal vegetables and heirloom legumes. While we’re at it, let’s also pretend I haven’t gained 40 pounds this pregnancy and barely fit into my favorite Rush t-shirt.
6:30 am – a bowl of frosted mini wheats with a scoop of crunchy peanut butter, a cup of decaf with vanilla soy creamer, and seltzer with a splash of OJ.
Here’s what I packed for the next 12 hours (there’s nothing worse than a pregnant lady who runs out of food, so I always plan for a little extra)
10:00 am – this beautiful office banana. So majestic.
10:30 am – Am I on 3rd breakfast? Whatever. I ate this bag of mixed nuts.
12:30 pm – Quick lunchroom photo of my little salad (lettuce, beets, chickpeas, onions, and feta with olive oil and lemony white balsamic) and leftover Spanish tortilla slice. That’s my coworker, Spike’s, hand waving over the food.
1:00 pm – This tiny little 3 Muskateers. Hey, I wonder what that little stain on my hand is?
4:30 pm – Unpictured scarfing of single serving popcorn bag I obliterated on the drive from work to my first doctors appointment of the evening.
7:00 pm – My “thank god I made it through this tragic day I am so not cooking right now how the eff am I going to survive 80 more days of this pregnancy” dinner of 3 black bean tacos with cheddar, onion, salsa and lettuce
Since you asked, work kept me late tonight (again) and I almost missed my first appointment, one I desperately needed to keep because of the stabbing pains I’ve had almost constantly in my back lately. They kept me waiting at that appointment, and then I missed my next one. Cute, right? It is not a thing that when you’re hugely pregnant, you suddenly get magical sympathy from people and are allowed to not get held up at work and stuff.
The good news is that you can come home, change into a full body sweatsuit, and cry hormonal rage-tears into a couple of tacos while watching Chopped. Because nothing goes better with food than food tv.