I Never Want to be Pregnant Again -- & Also I Hate Breakfast

I'm the middle child. Whether that has anything to do with my emotional well-being, I'm not sure. All I know is that I use it as a crutch to explain my sensitivity. I cry about everything. For the last seven or eight years I've been trying really hard to dispel the rumors running rampant in the family, though.

Being pregnant does not help my case. When I was five months along with A, I locked myself in the bathroom, sprawled out on the floor & cried. I WAS FAT! NOTHING FIT! Biggie T tried in vain to get me out, but I wasn't moving. How could I move? I was a house! You'd need to cut out the wall & shovel me out with a fork flit. Oh, I might add I'm a bit dramatic.

I'm not into astrology really, but I assume drama is a Leo characteristic. It should be at least. Also, I'm pretty sure not liking breakfast is another one (We both know it's not, but I needed a decent segue). I do not like breakfast. First off, eggs are gross as fuck. All runny & rubbery & ugh just gross. Aside from cereal, eating actual breakfast items makes me feel sick. I'd rather be hungry really than eat breakfast. Any time of day, too. But being pregnant kind of make me want eggs. Over-easy eggs. Sunny side up. A nice dippy egg, as we call them at home.

So imagine my surprise when I wake up one Sunday afternoon, deep into the eighth month of my second pregnancy, & actually convince Biggie T to take us to Denny's. I was going to get my eggs, God dammit. And they were going to be runny as hell & I was going to dip my toast into that yolk & enjoy being fat pregnant. I squeezed myself into a booth & didn't even need the menu. I ordered without looking. And then it came. Country fried steak, soaking in white, sausage-y gravy. And two beautiful eggs, sunny side up & ready for toast. Could this be the best day of my life!?

No. It couldn't be. Because I have a 4 year old. And while his intentions are usually good, isn't that road paved in dog shit or something? Because just as I was about to take a bite, A decided I needed syrup. I needed syrup all over my fucking steak & all over my eggs. I couldn't stop him. I watched in horror as the sticky, golden goo engulfed my plate. I. Was. Speechless.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Bitch, don't you fucking cry.

I bit the inside of my mouth & stared at my food. And then my nose tingled & my eyes swelled up. I ran to the bathroom. And I fucking cried. My food was ruined. I figured I might as well go hungry after that. What the hell was I going to eat?! Nothing! I was just going to starve! I'd sit there while A & Biggie T got to enjoy their food. Their food wasn't covered in syrup. Or if it was, it was supposed to be. I tried to collect myself. I marched straight out of that Denny's bathroom & sat back in the booth. The plate was still there, now a mixture of syrup & gravy, looking fucking gross.

The waitress must have sensed the distress signal I was putting out. She came back & offered to rustle me up another plate. She was an angel. But of course, by the drama kicked in & when she came back, I just didn't feel like eating.

But you know I did. After all, I was creating a miracle. And that miracle had to grow somehow.

I haven't been able to look at the gravy the same way since.