by Bethany Lindquist

Created on: October 11, 2008   Last Updated: October 18, 2008

Okay, okay, I'll admit it. I ate a whole pumpkin pie, but it took me three days to do it and I'm 30 weeks pregnant. These cravings can be killer! Is that an excuse? I don't know, you be the judge. Just like my midwife is the judge every few weeks when I go into her office and shield my eyes from the dreaded scale as she tells me that I gained another seven pounds in two and a half weeks. The looks of disappointment and pity flashed in my general direction do little to help my feelings of guilt.

How can I already be a bad mother? He's not even born yet. But that is exactly how I feel. Never mind the fact that I have been eating only ground turkey, tofu, and vegetables for most of this pregnancy. Never mind the fact that I quit my fifteen year smoking habit, or that I've only had decaf coffee, herbal tea and water to drink for the past several months. Nope, forget that I've swapped my red wine for that sparkling water and my soda for, well, plain water. I'm obviously not overweight, but all of it boils down to a number that they tell me I am failing to maintain. A number that some sadistic person drummed up from the likes of Hollywood imagery, or something of the sort that puts us all into categories that some of us are bound to fail at no matter what we do (or refrain from doing) to make us weep and rail against the injustice. All the while making us want to eat our weight in cake from the sheer depression of doing everything right and still failing. Maybe I should eat those snack cakes that I avert my gaze from in the grocery store. Maybe I should chug that caffeinated soda that my mouth waters for. Or how about that cheese danish that is calling my name from the donut shop? No, I dutifully refrain and routinely deny myself until I can't take it any more and eat a darned pumpkin pie!

So instead of indulging most of my cravings, I shrug. I sigh. I get angry at my alien body. I cry and feel defeated...then I remember the little one that got planted inside me by the man I love. I wonder if I am causing him harm by being upset and angry. I wonder what he would say to me if he could open his tiny mouth and talk to me right now at this very moment. I think that he would say "Hey, little mama, don't sweat it. I'm perfectly formed. I've got all the necessary parts. Don't get down about the weight. I'll love you no matter what for at least ten to fifteen years before I turn into an angst-filled teenager and hate it when you hug me in public. Besides, that pumpkin pie tasted excellent. Next time, though, could you add some whipped cream?" This is where I rub my big old tummy affectionately, and whisper "You got it, kiddo." Because next time, maybe I'll eat the darned pumpkin pie in two days and I'll add an extra dollop of whipped cream while I think about the two of us enjoying it together. Will I feel guilty? In truth, yes, I probably will. But not for very long...he's only got about ten more weeks in there.

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