When Brett and I decided to try for our fourth kid (you read that right…we did this on purpose), I knew I would puke for twenty weeks straight. Which obviously implies that no foods would taste good for many, many months. Which obviously is a problem for my inner fat kid.
I hadn’t worked out in close to a decade, but I channeled the former athlete that my inner fat girl had eaten in 2005…and decided to carb load for the event.
I carb loaded for an entire month.
I ate Cheetos so often and with such veracity that they stained my fingers. I kid you not.
I gained five pounds before I ever even conceived my fourth child. And proceeded to gain about fifty more pounds in the months to come. Which is a pretty impressive feat considering I had puked for twenty straight weeks and only had the remaining twenty weeks to actually retain calories.
It was so comical that I joked I was giving birth to the world’s first fifty pound baby.
I would show you a picture of what this looks like, but the internet is forever…and I can’t that risk.
Two pregnancies before that, when I had the inkling that I may be pregnant, I ate copious amounts of sushi the night before I took the test…because I wanted to eat copious amounts of guilt-free mercury.
The pregnancy before that (which is my first one, if you’re keeping track), I painted a bedroom when I thought I might be pregnant but was too young to actually know when a baby is conceived. I was still basically a newlywed, so this was a time when one did not need to keep track of such things (because SUCH THINGS WERE HAPPENING ALL OF THE TIME). I did turn out to be pregnant, so my fetus inhaled copious amounts of paint fumes.
I had a third pregnancy in there, and while I definitely drank Diet Coke, ate lots of frozen pizza, and stopped taking prenatal vitamins two kids ago…I don’t have a particular memory of purposely violating one of the 4,578,942 rules of carrying a fetus.
But I gained fifty pounds, so the obvious implication is that I definitely violated all of the rules.
The point of me telling you all of this is actually not to relive all of the glorious moments of childbearing. Because those collective thirty-six months are times I would like to block out of my memory forever.
Rather, I am trying to paint a picture that I am not particularly fond of “rules” (a trait my first born husband adores about me)…particularly when it comes to things I put in my body. Because if ever there were a time to be considerate of such things, it would be during pregnancy.
This is the thing: I wish I cared. I come from a long line of borderline hippies. My mom breastfed in the 80s when few other corporate career woman did. My sister and sister-in-law both cloth diapered. I homemade hummus in the 90s to pack in my school lunch. I think every person in my family has been a vegan at some point (my little brother notwithstanding…he shares in my love of Sonic’s chili cheese dogs).
But I lack the gene that loves the smell of patchouli and believes LaCroix is an acceptable alternative to Diet Coke.
And I also care too much about what people think to believe that natural deodorant actually works. (Those of you who are going to private message me about the recipe you have that actually works, I regretfully inform you that it does not. You’ve just gone nose blind. But you will live forever, so it’s a pretty decent tradeoff.)
The interesting part about the dichotomy in my soul that longs for vinegar to sanitize my entire house while only truly trusting bleach is that I keep thinking I will eventually emerge from the dark side of GMOs, chemical-based cleaning products, and aspartame.
But no matter how many times you tell me you only buy Coke to clean your toilet, I will snarkily brag about what a great detox it must be for my body.
I wish I were different. I truly do.
You have no idea how much money I’ve invested in wanting essential oils to be as magical as they all claim. Like a gambling addict in Vegas, a little tea tree oil pretty much cured my son’s eczema, so I keep going back for more.
And end up with a house smelling like I smoked a little weed to survive my day.
The first hit’s for free, y’all. After that, I must use my 6th grade DARE Officer’s teachings on the 8 Ways To Say No.
To the essential oil distributors. Not the drug dealers.
Although, I recommend saying no to them, too.
I do not write this to poke fun at my crunchy friends. If that’s a natural byproduct, I can’t be held responsible (blame all of that aspartame). It is more of a confession to say that I am embracing who I am. And will admit that I will never be as crunchy as all of my Facebook friends wish I were.
It’s not like I am supportive of all of the chemicals I eat and inhale on a given day.
It’s just I don’t have the wherewithal to care.
I know I am not alone in this. But my people must eat our Cheetos in the privacy of our own homes…sneak Advil when no one’s looking…decide aluminum poisoning is worth the risk…pretend like we don’t know the best places to get fountain Cokes…bring Pirate Booty and Honest Kids juice boxes to snack day at football when we know kids really want Gatorade and Doritos (ok fine, I still bring the good stuff and just endure the judgements of other moms while mentally high fiving the kids).
I can tell you with absolute certainty who the crunchy mamas are, but my people hide in plain site. We have to go to Walmart on the other side of town to buy our Lunchables and eat Taco Bell under the cover of darkness.
And under no circumstances post about these choices on Facebook.
Perhaps I am the sacrificial lamb to admit to the world my love of all things toxic. A grass-fed, cage-free, antibiotic-free lamb. Obviously.