I break my months of blogosphere silence, for what I have to share is truly blog material. Brace yourselves:
My family and I, including a few friends who are very dear to us, vacationed to Fort Worth to visit my brother and sister. The first place we stopped at as a collected group was a buffet style deli restaurant, for I was hungry. For some reason, I wanted potato salad.
As my family arranged itself around a collection of pushed-together tables and started making it's way to the buffet line, my dear father, whom I love so much, graciously offered to fetch me a plate, as I had two other mouths to concern myself with. I happily thanked him for his kindness and set about tending to my sons' meals. I leave to grab their drinks. When I return, everyone else has already amassed their meals and started eating without me. I shrug off the mild offense, as I was really hungry and eager to eat. I sit at my seat, ready to dive in, when before me I see a plate covered in nothing but dressing-less coleslaw and one packet of crackers.
I glance incredulously at my father. He happily smiles back. I guess he had remembered my craving for some sort of deli-style side dish, but brought me the wrong one, and he is clearly pleased with himself for being such a thoughtful father. I smile back at him. I can't begrudge him such a well-intended mistake. So, instead, I take up my plate and hit up the now much longer buffet line myself.
My hunt was successful. I return to the table with a heaping plate of food, including a delicious looking serving of potato salad and, what excites my stomach the most, a large, crust-less, triple-decker club sandwich, no tomato, with a puddle of creamy honey mustard beside it. It is the quintessential craving of all my pregnancies, and boy, am I excited. I set down my plate, but my meal will have to wait. I forgot a drink.
Within the minute, I return to my seat and plop down, eager to begin my feast. To my utter and shocking horror, I look upon my plate to see that my much-anticipated sandwich has been eaten down to two bites! The culprit even had the gall to mix ketchup in with my honey mustard! Anger and sadness war within me as I glare at the faces around the table.
"Who ate my sandwich?" I demand, frantic tears already stinging my eyes.
No one spoke. Looks of confusion, amusement, and concern stare back at me, but one face looks away guiltily. My father. He apologizes quietly, trying to explain his actions, but my hungry, emotional state would hear none of it. Those tears I had tried to will away explode from my eyes in an angry, hurt torrent.
"Dad, how could you! I'm hungry! I'm pregnant! You do not eat a hungry, pregnant woman's food!" I fume, my voice rising in a frenzied pitch with each word. I had never been angry with my father, but now, I was livid.
I woke up with tears wetting my pillow. Sniffling and snuffling, I flipped over and curled myself around Stephan's shoulder. He mumbles something incoherent in his sleep. I gradually calm down. The moral of this story, dear readers: no matter how "close" you may be to a woman with child, never ever eat a pregnant woman's food. Not even in her dreams.
I have come to forgive you, Daddy, and I still love you. Please don't touch my club sandwich.
