Spotted in my refrigerator: an ode to both placenta brain and cliche pregnancy cravings. Apparently every time I go to the market, I buy a fresh jar of pickles. Meanwhile, my legs are swollen to the size of small trees, and I’m pretty sure I’ve started waddling. And can someone explain to me why people feel the need to constantly tell pregnant women “Wow, you’re huge!” or “Are you sure there aren’t twins in there?” Just because we’re pregnant doesn’t mean we enjoy being called fatties. (I’m talking to you, woman-at-my-cousin’s-wedding-who-exclaimed: “I wouldn’t have recognized you – you were so thin in your wedding pictures!”)
…And may I reiterate?
Feed Me Seymour
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