If the pregnant body is a holy temple of taste bud heaven, with culinary pleasures of celestial heights and accompanying uniquely specific cravings, then the nursing body is definitely a holy demon garbage can. A high-burning, trash-incinerating compactor of straight up junk.
Bear with me here.
Every night I go to bed feeling positively penitent over the day’s eating sins. Just today? One New York City street bagel (chewy, oh oh so chewy) schmeared with cream cheese, a full size Kit Kat bar, three handfuls of cheddar pretzels, two handfuls of Swedish Fish, a fried egg, five squares of milk chocolate with almonds, three slices of peppery salami, a falafel, two cinnamon rolls, a mini Almond Joy, followed by three cinnamon roll centers. All of this eaten in a zombie-like trance, while staring at the wall, with a baby on one hip.
Did you spy a single vegetable in there?
Nope, me neither.
(Some nights, to rectify this, I eat an entire bag of steamed broccoli really, really fast. At midnight.)
Every night I go to bed feeling terribly disgusted with myself. Oh, and also guilty. Really guilty. Eater’s remorse is a real thing! And it is deadly.
And yet, every morning I awake with a clean slate (so far knock on wood knock on wood). Where my pregnant body was the temple of an angry God, full of vengeance and water retention, my nursing body belongs to the devil of gluttony. Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we have a fat baby to nurse! That devil is a forgiving devil, a rewarding devil, praising my gluttony by taking (nearly) every ounce of disgusting fat I am consuming and passing it kindly onto the thighs of my Huckleberry.
And I’m all, “Thanks, Body Devil, this is awesome,” but also, “Dude, Body Devil, how much longer can things go on this way?”
Where is the accountability here?!?!?
I fear greatly the karma that awaits when Huck has had enough of me and I am relegated to my own puny metabolism. I have terribly ambitious goals of nursing Huck until he is 18 months (or at least 12 months, anyway), so I have me some time, but it is there! Looming! In my future! And what of me then? When I wean, will I have to give up the mindless handfuls of Swedish Fish? The Kit Kats?!? Noo, not the Kit Kats!
In the dark of the night as I recount all I have eaten that day in the name of feeding my baby (did I really eat ALL that? oh my gosh), I promise myself that tomorrow–oh tomorrow!–tomorrow I will be better. Tomorrow I will swap out the chocolate for some fresh fruit . . . maybe pound down some celery in place of all those dairy-free mini blintzes from the Trader Joe’s (really, dairy-free? What is in there then?!?). Maybe one of these days I’ll actually make good on these repentant promises? Maybe . . . do we have any more cinnamon rolls left?
What about you? How great and terrible was the day of reckoning for you at the end of your nursing days? Am I really in for it? And must I really and truly part with these boobs? I have grown quite fond. Do you think Huck would mind it too much if I nursed him till he was 30? Maybe? Shoot.
Not on the menu? Why I will never drink while pregnant.