My body is no longer mine. I suppose I haven't been stripped of it entirely, but am simply sharing it. The needs of the tiny proto-person I'm sharing it with, however, take precedence over my own wants. Andrew has taken to hovering in the background whenever I'm eating, asking if whatever it is I'm having is okay. I can't complain too much, though. He's always taken care of me, but now he won't let me lift a finger for anything. It's odd though, to think that everything I'm doing is affecting my unborn child. I've always been the sort of person who reacts poorly to being told I can't do something, especially if it's for my own good. I would love nothing more than to have a big block of feta cheese crumbled over a salad as a side dish to a nice plate of sushi, all washed down with a pint of hard cider, or even just a glass of iced tea, perhaps both. I now I can still have plenty of things I enjoy, but at the moment I'm focused on what I can't have. It's like I'm on a nine month diet from hell.
My mother has also gone crazy over this child, in a much better way than expected. We went to the beach together yesterday, just the two of us. There was no arguing and minimal eye rolling. She's already talking about babysitting next year while we're both working and at school. Today she told me she's ordering me a book about keeping a natural home for the baby, since I've become a bit of a hippie in that respect. She's also been sympathetic, since Dr. Killjoy, as she calls him, has basically put her on the same diet I'm having to keep to, though presumably without all the folic acid.
Andrew just called, he's finally on his way home. He's doing sound design for the show that's going on at school, so he's been putting in long hours. He's kindly agreed to bring me a strawberry milkshake because "the baby wants one." I think this kid and I, if we can work together, have a great future ahead of us.
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