People are constantly asking us pregnant women about our cravings. If it’s not whether I eat pickles with my ice cream, it’s if my husband has had to run out and buy something in the middle of […]
People are constantly asking us pregnant women about our cravings. If it’s not whether I eat pickles with my ice cream, it’s if my husband has had to run out and buy something in the middle of the night. During my first pregnancy, I only had two cravings. One night, I needed (that’s right, needed) two turnovers: one cherry, one chocolate. And a side of potato cakes from Arby’s. Yes, my husband went and bought them for me, and yes, he had to go to three different Arby’s locations in order to find what I needed. What a guy, right? The other craving was for the white fluff-filled LaMar’s bar from LaMar’s Donuts. I probably had a dozen of them by the time my 40 weeks was through.
That was it—only two cravings. But every day, craving or not, I completely savored each bite of food. When I’m pregnant, food simply tastes better. Chocolate tastes richer, chicken more flavorful, and popcorn extra buttery. I don’t know if it’s the heightened sense of smell or my own crazy taste buds, but I LOVE my food when I’m pregnant. (Don’t even ask me about the chicken wings I ate on our babymoon at Disney World’s Ohana. My husband was actually afraid of me that night.)
Now I’m pregnant again, and Friday night I felt like having a hamburger. It wasn’t a craving; it was the end of a busy week at school, and it just sounded good. I was ready to kick back and have a nice, juicy burger. So, my dutiful husband took our daughter and me to Goldberg’s, one of my favorite local hamburger spots. I knew what I wanted before we even set foot inside. I could practically taste the patty melt (and the breaded mushrooms—I mean, come on, when in Rome).
We ordered our food, and just as expected, every bite was incredible. The rye was perfectly toasted, the onions grilled to the peak of tenderness, the burger had just enough grease to make it feel decadent. It was glorious.
Until I got home.
My stomach revolted against said patty melt. Instead of curling up on the couch and watching a movie, I was curled up with ginger ale and a bottle of Tums. It was one of those nights. A “What was I thinking?” night. A “Why did you let me eat all of that?” night. An “I’ll never eat another patty melt again” kind of night. And I won’t.
That is—unless I get a craving.