Oh how I wish there really was an actual croissant in my new oven. Because that one up there? I ate it. And I could really use another one.
Why? Well, I can tell you it’s not my usual appetite for pastry at work here. There’s something far more serious going on. And franchement, I don’t know whether to be honored or alarmed that no one’s called me out on it yet.
I mean, have you read my blog lately? First of all, I was completely missing in action for the month of December. That’s because I was busy walking around in a nauseous stupor, contemplating whether or not I was eating enough Ritz crackers to get their corporate sponsorship.
Then New Years came and went without one single mention of champagne. Not one! And nobody thought to check and see if I still had a pulse?
And what about all the obsessive talk about eggs and chocolate pudding? Do I scare you enough with my normal eating habits that the news of me eating nothing but huevos rancheros and Jell-O wasn’t even a blip on the radar?
Sheesh. I guess I’m going to have to spell it out for you.
Je suis enceinte.
That’s ehhn-cehhhnt. As in preggo. Knocked up. With child. Scared out of my mind.
Ok that last one isn’t entirely true. Husband and I are actually really excited about this little alien growing in my belly. What I’m scared of is not being able to eat a good rare steak until, oh, August or so. And letting go of smelly, unpasteurized cheeses. And the champagne! Oh the champagne. It’s a travesty.
And while I’m overwhelmed by the miracle of life and the pregnancy glow and all that crap, what strikes me as truly momentous is the growing list of things this baby is going to owe me when s/he comes out. Oh, I’m keeping track. Right now we’re up to about 6 bottles of bubbly, 4 steak dinners, a big wheel of brie, one ski trip in the Alps, all of my muscle tone and 2 pants buttons. And most likely a boob lift.
I think that’s fair, don’t you?