I’ve always considered myself to be a little bit of a rebel.
Not in the leather pant-wearing way (the world breathes a sigh of relief) but in the sense that I like to break away from the norm. Not because there’s anything wrong with the norm but because the norm seems too, er, normal.
For example, when friends exchange witty one-liners about the latest episode of “The Office,” I enjoy being completely clueless. And when I found out I was pregnant the same day my team, the Steelers, were playing in the AFC Championship game, I decided to save the news for my husband until after the game to avoid distraction.
I’m not sure of the reason for my rebel-without-a-cause persona (maybe my childhood crush on James Dean?), but I do know one thing: Pregnancy has a funny way of changing who you are inside and out.
Of course, I’ve known this all along, but I realized it most acutely a few days ago when my outside-the-box personality took a hit from the most innocuous of contenders—aged cucumbers and glorified cow’s milk. It was a warm night, and the family had gathered for a bonfire and weenie roast in the backyard. Like any good mom-to-be, I abstained from the nitrates on a bun and went on a hunt for something more pregnancy-approved. I spied a jar of dill pickle chips in the fridge and didn’t even wait to get a fork before prying out one (okay, three) of the little guys.
After downing a week’s worth of my recommended sodium allowance, I headed back to the kitchen. This time, the freezer was calling my name, and without thinking, I filled a bowl with my favorite childhood treat—mint and chip ice cream. Back out on the deck, ice cream in hand and giant pickle jar by my side, I was completely unaware of how pregnant I looked until my husband surveyed my snacks with raised eyebrows and a grin.
It was then that it hit me. Oh gosh. I am stereotypical, after all.
Mea culpa, James Dean. You’re still my hero.
