Confession: In the last 24 hours, I have personally overseen the demise of an entire bag of grapes. A very large bag. In the past week, I have wolfed down not one, not two, but three […]
Confession: In the last 24 hours, I have personally overseen the demise of an entire bag of grapes. A very large bag. In the past week, I have wolfed down not one, not two, but three bags of the tasty little suckers.
In my defense, I had a willing accomplice. Jacob was responsible for eating at least a handful each time. (It would be better if I didn’t mention it was a toddler-sized hand, wouldn’t it?)
I’m not entirely sure what came over me. I imagine it’s the same feeling I had last week when I somehow managed to eat four… yes, four … Wendy’s hamburgers in a single day. Again in my defense, they were spread across a ten-hour time frame. (Though I sincerely doubt this will make you judge me any less—and rightly so.)
I think the usual term for my recurring predicament is gluttony. Unless you’re pregnant, in which case it’s politely called “satisfying a ‘craving.’” (Whoever came up with that phrase was either an expecting woman or the smart—and probably somewhat frightened—man of a pregnant wife.)
Whatever you want to label it, I have to say I don’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt over my recent splurges. For my entire first trimester, I was hardly able to keep any food down—even a swallow of water—often for upwards of 24 hours and dropped a few pounds as a result.
Already this week, I’ve added a couple of those pounds back on, and I’ve enjoyed every minute. (Though I can’t say the same about my blood sugar levels.) There’s even a hint of a growing belly under my clothes these days.
Or, on second thought, maybe that’s just the grapes.