ah, crap.

Remember in Romeo and Juliet, when Juliet realizes that Romeo is a Montague and laments, “my only love sprung from my only hate!”? No? You weren’t paying attention? That happens. A lot. BUT, if you do remember that, my mistake was exactly like that … only the complete opposite.

When I was five months pregnant with the Peanut, I was in my glory. My husband treated me like a queen and I felt like a goddess. Everything was sensual: Cool breezes stopped me in my tracks, my face turning into it so the wind’s fingers could trail through my hair. My husband’s worn cotton shirts caressed my skin, the smell of him lingered and sent me drifting away into delicious daydreams. But all that paled in comparison to food. I loved how cool milk spilled in a silky flow down my throat and swoosh heavily in my stomach. I could taste every cleansing salt crystal as it danced a swinging Mambo on my tongue with chilly lettuce and a medley of spices as I crunched on tacos. The smooth cream of chocolate sent shivers down my spine. Ice cream, oh my, how that velvety coolness enveloped me from the inside out, encasing me in a cool smoothness as rich as the heaviest silk. I loved being pregnant.

The hate part? The mistake part? While the Peanut is not my only love, she is one of my dearest loves, and from my pregnancy with her sprung my only hate: my body. Just because I loved reveled in what I was eating, didn’t mean the calories and fat didn’t dance off at a quick tempo. I got fat. I still struggle, and the Peanut turns 8 this summer. *sigh*

Want to read more lamentations? (it's such a fun word to say) Head on over to Sprite's Keeper!