What did you have for your last helpie selfie meal?
I had scrambled eggs.

It started with the morning sickness. For almost four straight months, the thought of food repulsed me. Any food except pineapple.

(Blessed, blessed pineapple. )

James had to make do with frozen pizzas and Chinese delivery for months while I lay on the bed alternately groaning and sleeping.

However, since the morning sickness has abated, I’ve developed a curious attitude toward food. I neither love nor loathe it. It’s there, it’s something that other people are passionate about preparing and consuming, but me? I’d rather go catch up on email. This is a strange turn.

Used to be that thinking about food consumed 80% of my free time. Lists of foods I wanted to make, lists of groceries, lists of foods for the week, lists of foods in season, all littered the house along with recipe printouts and piles of open cookbooks.

Now?
Grocery shopping happens when the cupboards are completely bare.
List making happens when I realize I don’t know what’s in the freezer.
I haven’t opened cookbooks since Christmas.

Pregnant and non pregnant women the world over will want to kick my behind for the following sentence — hell, I want to kick my own ass — at 5 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight, I continue to get scolded at each visit.

Dear eating, where did all the joy go? I miss it.

Additional strange pregnancy symptoms:

a. Preoccupation with shoes. Online, I shoe shop every day. Mind you, I don’t buy, but I have wish lists and shopping lists and shopping carts filled with high heels and slides and strappy awesome foot coverings.

I have never liked shoes before. Especially shoes that aren’t kicky sneakers.

b. Preoccupation with football. Despite growing up in Packers country, I’ve never really cared much about the game. Since pregnancy? I can’t get enough. Game day on Sunday, the Superbowl, all of it… I’m on web sites and I can keep up with banter and and and, I care passionately about football.

My passion for food will return, I know it. It’s just some strange biochemical protective strategy my hormones have cooked up in the presence of a fetus. The other two? Time, and my wallet will tell.