I didn’t get cravings. I didn’t want to drink guiness. Or eat coal. Or order a banana and tunafish pizza. Nope, I was absolutely fine. Nothing changed. Hmmmm.
It was when the waiter asked if everything was ok with our meal while I was face first in a bathtub of carbonara that I realized that perhaps I did have pregnancy cravings after all. Carbonara. Flipping tons of it. I could have eaten it for breakfast. Made in a vat. Enough to serve six full grown men.
But that particular craving only lasted about five weeks. I guess it must have been the carbohydrates in the pasta and the fat in the cream that my body was craving. Or just the taste. And that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
After the carbonara phase I went on to peaches – fresh or tinned. Whole or segments. By hand or with a fork. On the train home (nothing like loud slurping noises and peach juice running down your chin to clear a space round you – even on London Underground… at rush hour) or in front of the telly. To be honest, peaches could have formed the entirety of my diet but my better half insisted on normal food as well. So traditional.
And then it stopped and I went on to Jacket Potatoes. With Baked beans. And Cheese. And Coleslaw. All at the same time. It was like a Vesuvius of food bursting from atop a potato. I think about it now and I feel faintly sick. The Irony.