Unsupervised

So today at lunch, Baby H asserted that if it was not made out of fruit, he did not want to eat it. He was like this before, back in Trimester the First. I had heard that disinterest in most things food-like sometimes returns in later weeks of the baby-growing project, but my reaction to such tales was to say “bah! That doesn’t sound like something I would do at all! Food is delicious!"

Yeah, so, there I am, all hating on the idea of food that is not made of fruit when I get the idea to go to the Jamba Juice, because Jamba Juice? It is tasty. And also made of fruit. When I get there it becomes clear that Baby H wants his smoothie to have a dominant peach flavor and no banana. Seriously! This baby! And his demands!

After I read the entire menu twice, much to the befuddlement of the male cashier and the several male customers who had to go ahead of me, one peach perfection smoothie was gotten and consumed. Later we ate some red grapes.

But then! As I’m riding home on BART, I receive another demand. Pad thai, asserts Baby H. For dinner, pad thai. So part of me is thinking that wow, this is so exciting! My first real craving of pregnancy! A right of passage! I may be a late bloomer, but bloom I shall! Then a bigger part of me realizes that my baby’s daddy? He is in Annapolis. And even I realize that to ask him to fly home to fetch me pad thai this evening would be unreasonable. But he has not had to deal with even one crazy craving-fetching adventure! And as his adorably, enormously pregnant wife, it is my responsibility to send him on such adventures! And now, in my hour of need, he is sailing on a schooner, drinking beer and eating crabcakes. (I can only imagine.) So, feeling very oppressed by my lack of a proximal husband, I turn to pad thai acquisition plans.

I fire up the Yelp on my phone and determine that, on my walk home from BART, I have two options. One is cruddy and always empty; the other, a trendy Asian-fusion bistro. I opt for the bistro, for a multitude of reasons: 1) If you’re going to feed your baby prawns, they should hail from the most reputable source; 2) Trendy bistro is close to home and this would be a non-committal way to audition it for a date night; 3) Trendy bistro is close to home and so I wouldn’t have to carry my pad thai as far; and 4) A half-star more on Yelp.

HOWEVER. Because Asian-fusion makes me nervous and suspicious that there is soy sauce (and therefore wheat) in everything, I quiz them on the contents of my desired dish. They admit there is soy sauce, and they cannot leave it out, because the sauce is premixed. Trendy Asian-fusion bistro is so not our new date night locale.

So I skulked toward the market, thinking I would settle for some instant pad thai in a box. And as I go to cross the street (with the walk sign!), I look to ensure that no one is going to run me over and this lady? She’s completely going to run me over! So I stop short of the crosswalk and she sees me and is of course horrified that she almost could have run over a pregnant lady, if said pregnant lady had not been being cautious. Because really, no one wants to run over a pregnant lady.

And now I’m thinking that clearly my husband should be taking care of this nonsense, with the danger and the difficulty and all.

And then it turns out the market does not sell instant pad thai in a box. And I am really too hungry and pathetic at this point to actually make pad thai. Which leads me to two thoughts: 1) Baby H is getting his choice of microwave mac-n-cheese or slacker nachos for dinner and 2) Jasper owes me some pad thai, or whatever else Baby H is demanding by the time he gets home from impressing the NASA bigwigs with his flashy Powerpoint and handsomeness.