Baby, You Are What I Eat

Medical professionals will tell you that things that happen to a pregnant mother, happen to the baby as well, thus impacting the development of the child. If mom takes medicine, so does the baby. If mom listens to music, the baby hears it, too. So, it only follows that whatever mom eats, the baby eats as well. Herein lays my concern.

You see, up until a few months ago, I’ve been what is known as “a good eater”. I could count on one hand the number of foods that I don’t like: creamed corn, beets, and things that taste like ocean water. As a child, I would often be the last person at the table, finishing my seconds or even thirds (thank you genetics for a good metabolism). As an adult, one of my favorite things to do was browse cook books and magazines for new recipes. By comparison, and much to my annoyance, my husband is a picky eater. He doesn’t see any reason to even try to be healthy. His favorite meals are spaghetti with Prego, which he claims he could eat every day, macaroni and cheese, and Hamburger Helper. To his credit, he will cook pretty much any time I ask and sometimes without me asking. Most of the time I have to hold my tongue, knowing that my choice is to eat some form of boxed dinner or cook myself. Well, much to my chagrin, our baby is apparently its father’s child.

Since about week four of this adventure, I have been quite ill. Few foods stay down consistently, and things I use to love now repulse me. However, foods that I use to merely tolerate for the sake of laziness, now are the only things that stay down. The other night, I actually found myself asking if we could have macaroni and cheese for dinner! So, now my diet, and thus Jr.’s, now consists of macaroni and cheese, noodles, and best of all, Marshmallow Mateys (Malto Meals version of Lucky Charms). I hadn’t had these sugary gems from Down Under since college, but about a month ago while scanning the grocery store for anything that sounded good, I noticed them. Since then, I’ve had my Australian friends for breakfast every morning, except for a few brave mornings that I’ve soon regretted. So, if you are what you eat, or in the case of our baby, if you are what I eat, this may be cause for concern. Fortunately, I spoke with a friend recently, who has two grown children. She was also very sick during both her pregnancies. Without any prompting, she volunteered that one of the only things she could keep down was Captain Crunch! As neither of her children grew up to be pirates, perhaps I don’t have to worry that my baby will grow up to be a chemically enhanced, sugar coated kangaroo.

Some Protector I am...

At the risk of sounding like a bigot, I've always believed part of the role of the man in a marriage is to protect his wife. Furthermore, having been married, now, to my wife for over six years, I find that she seems to agree that this is my role.

To be sure, it's never, actually, been spoken. Indeed, this is a sort of an unspoken, understood role I have. I believe this because my wife has indicated to me that she does not sleep well when I'm not home. At times when I go away for a weekend, she claims she gets very anxious. And, while I don't like being away from my wife for periods of time, I've never been apprehensive when I'm home alone at night.

Of course, the conclusion I draw from this is that she believes it is my role to protect her. But, here's the problem: I suck at protecting her. Moreover, when I add up my traits and attributes, big and strong are nowhere to be found. Indeed, were a burglar or a "masher" [to use a phrase from the 50's] to happen upon our home, I'm pretty sure I'd hide in the back and tell my wife to look into it for me. Perhaps I'm being a little modest; or perhaps not. But, being 5 foot nothing doesn't bode well when trying to appear fierce.

However, while big and strong would not be on the list, I generally see myself as still having all my marbles. Not to say that that would come in handy in any way when defending myself physically. But, perhaps I could bore the burglar to death by talking about politics.

With that said, I come now to this morning as I was leaving for work. Usually, I come in and drop all my essentials in a tray, including car keys, wallet and house keys. But apparently last night, I forgot to put all the keys in the tray. What's more, I didn't even realize this until I stepped outside and heard a jingle in the door. So, I looked down to see I'd left those same keys hanging in the door.

To make matters worse--or more idiotic--I locked the door as I came in. That's like locking a door on a convertible with the top down. Anyways, here I am wondering where my mind is going. But I'm not too worried.

After all, even if I can't pass on a good brain to my child, at least he or she will get my dashing good.... knees.