Ah, pregnancy cravings. The bane of my (and my scale’s) existence. Of course, I can’t be one of those lucky women who craves only the healthiest of healthy foods. Instead, I find myself drooling over birthday cakes and deep-fried anything. Hell, I’d probably eat a sock if it was covered in enough grease. Sure, it tastes great, and giving into one of my cravings is equivalent to a mind-shattering orgasm, but ever since tearing the ass out of my only pair of pants that still fit and blowing the zipper off of my sweater simultaneously, I’ve been afraid to cave in on my food desires.
Unfortunately, I’ve never had great self-control, and it doesn’t help that I have an accomplice. Piggle is the best (or worst) excuse I have for my indulgences. He asks for pizza almost daily, and cookies are the reason he exists. Of course, I can’t deny him the good things in life! That would make me a terrible person. It’s not my fault he can’t finish the extra-large, extra-cheese pie. Waste not, want not, right?
In all seriousness, though, I don’t actually feed that garbage to him—I do make some attempts to keep it healthy for his sake. Though, he could do with some fattening up.
Tonight, I was craving pizza again, and I also needed a quick distraction for Mr. Tantrum-Pants. Going to the park wasn’t an option because Mother Nature is PMSing, so it’s been pouring rain and freezing cold here for a few days. Instead of burning off some energy outside, I decided we’d make dinner together. It’s not the first time I’ve let him help out with meal preparations, but it is the first time he had full control. Usually, I get everything together in Piggle-sized bowls, and he just mixes it all together. Tonight, he made it all himself! This was the result:
No Piggle fingers were harmed in the making of these pizzas!
Piggle, being the bizarre-o child that he is, absolutely loves grating cheese! He begs me to let him do it at least twice a day. I had to hide the grater because he’d started grabbing it and the cheese when my back was turned.
Surprisingly, this was far less messy than I’d expected! The only reason he even ended up with sauce on him was because he leaned into it to reach the back of the pizza!
See, I told you it wasn’t just extra cheese!
I kid you not, he lined those zucchinis up like that all on his own! He was very precise about it—-and it only took him 15 minutes to accomplish!
Please excuse the butchered photography. I have a toddler; therefore, I do not possess nice dishes or a camera worth more than my house…for obvious reasons.
The end result was delicious! Of course, Piggle being in the midst of the Terrible Twos refuses to eat 99% of the time, so I got to eat these bad boys myself! The veggies make it okay, right?!
If I hadn’t already decided, very early on, that my uterus is closed for business after Sequel is born, I’d sure as hell be coming to that conclusion now. Pregnancy is kicking my ass! Some may consider me lucky (or hate my guts) because I don’t get morning sickness, my belly is free of baby-related stretch marks, and I don’t gain more than 5 lbs. Karma definitely makes sure I make up for it, though. I don’t think there has been a more complicated pregnancy in the history of child-bearing—okay, well, I’m sure there have been, but I’d like to wallow in self-pity, so just let me have this one.
Between hospital stays for a gimpy placenta and the ever-growing feeling that my vagina is about to fall off, I can honestly say I am so done with baby-making! The only real benefit (if you can call it that) is that I love complaining—and boy, do I ever have shit to whine about now (fist-sized hemorrhoids, anyone?). Oh, and I guess getting a kid out of it in the end is pretty cool, too, but I’ll make that call when I see how she sleeps.
Luckily, my bed rest has been lifted slightly, so I’m able to do far more with Piggle. The only thing stopping me from running a marathon (aside from the fact that I’m the laziest person alive) is the giant bowling ball in my hoo-haw. Great visual, huh? If it weren’t for the insane pressure that makes me walk like a drunk penguin, I might actually be able to clean my house…at least that’s what I tell Husband.
Instead of tackling the disaster that is my house, I’ve been teaching the boy some life skills—or, you know, running a one-toddler sweatshop. He’s actually a huge fan of helping out, and he does a pretty decent job of it. Bonus: He works for free!
One of his favorites is sorting laundry. He’s got a slight OCD tendency to him, so this is a great way to hone his organizational skills and make a dent in the thigh-high pile of dirty clothes in my upstairs hallway. Generally, I take pictures of all the activities we do, but this is one I’ve skipped out on because really, no one needs to see photographic evidence of my poor housekeeping. You’ll just have to take my word for it when I tell you he spent 45 minutes sorting Daddy’s socks from his.
Weekends are usually when I attempt to restore some kind of order to the place, and my little child-slave is always game for some light chores! I’m not about to stifle the Martha Stewart in him. Why shouldn’t I capitalize on every opportunity to get out of doing dishes!?
Note the sparkling kitchen behind him? That was all me! Aren’t you proud?
This was our first attempt at dish-washing, and let me say, it’s been our biggest success so far! If it weren’t for the mini-heart attacks I have every time he slips on his stool, it would be the perfect time killer! It’s actually become part of our evening routine. I even bought him his own set of scrubbies and rags. Of course, he doesn’t actually clean anything, and there is usually a bigger mess when he’s done than when he started, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
When he finally tired of splashing in the water and had eaten his fill of bubbles, I was exhausted! The only logical thing to do was put my feet up and teach Piggle another important life-skill: pampering the lady in his life.
Even he benefited from this one—he got to lick my face!
Don’t forget to check out our other Bed Rest Boredom Busters:
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It’s finally happened. Piggle, only 19 months old, has fallen prey to this generation’s idea of music. We tried to prevent it. We played the oldies, the goodies, and the stuff that never goes bad. Problem is, the radio got to him first.
We were too late.