It is a truth universally acknowledged that a pregnant woman in possession of a good craving must be in want of that exact craving.
That is where I found myself during my first pregnancy. I experienced incredible morning sickness. And afternoon sickness. And evening sickness. Smells set off my gag reflex in a way I wouldn't have imagined possible. I threw up numerous times daily and had already had to be IV fluid-rehydrated in a claustrophbic hospital room with construction going on outside my window, causing me to nearly lose my mind.
I was miserable. Imagine my elation when finally, after months of gagging at the very thought of food, something sounded good. Something sounded delicious and I wanted it. Immediately. The problem the timing. It was close to midnight, my husband was tired, and I wanted rocky road ice cream. No, let me rephrase that. I NEEDED ROCKY ROAD ICE CREAM. And not just any rocky road would do. I needed real marshmallows and substantial chunks of almonds.
Lest you think me a selfish and lazy wife, let me explain. I'd have gladly gone to pick up the ice cream myself, but at that point in the pregnancy, smells overwhelmed me. I'd already thrown up in the parking lots of numerous grocery stores because upon entering the store, I would smell the dirt on the potatoes and I'd lose it. Literally. (I know some of you are questioning that I could smell the dirt on the potatoes and KNOW it was the dirt on the potatoes. I assure you, I could.)
Usually I made it to a garbage can or some distance from the store entrance, but once I didn't and had to deal with the humiliation of being a public puker, something I'd feared ever since elementary school when Gina threw up in Mrs. Smith's class and the custodian had to come clean it up with sawdust.
Being the kind husband that he is, and not wanting me to repeat the humiliating performance, Travis drove to Smith's to purchase ice cream. Upon his return, I opened the bag, anxious to partake of the carton of frozen goodness that was the first thing that had sounded appealing in months.
Much to my dismay, I found a carton of pineapple sherbet. "Where's mine?" I asked, sure this must be for him.
"But this is pineapple sherbet."
"I know. It was on sale." My husband loves a good sale, but pineapple sherbet? I wouldn't like that even when I wasn't pregnant.
I'd like to say that I calmly and sweetly accepted his offering of cheap pineapple sherbet or that I asked him kindly to please return to the store for rocky road ice cream. But in my pregnancy-crazed disappointment that I wasn't going to have the chocolately and nutty goodness of expensive rocky road ice cream, I lost it and in a voice that I'm sure was much too loud and far too shrill, I instructed him that when a pregnant wife SAYS rocky road ice cream, she MEANS rocky road ice cream.
I must have been frightening, because he went back to the store and purchased rocky road ice cream. The kind with lots of nuts and whole marshmallows.
I threw away the pineapple sherbet a few months later. See, he didn't want it either.