It was 10:20 and we still hadn’t eaten dinner.
Not because it wasn’t ready–it had been in the oven on “warm” for at least two hours–but because I was surfing another one of the vague bouts of nausea that seem to have replaced full-on morning sickness.
I didn’t tell him, but the smell from the kitchen–which I’d find tantalizing under other circumstances–was suffocating. It wasn’t that I wasn’t hungry. We hadn’t eaten since a very early breakfast, which I’d picked at. I was ravenous. But the thought of vegetable and beef tip kabobs, brown rice, and garbanzos…. I buried my head in a pillow on the couch.
“Do you think you can eat now?” Francisco asked gently. I told him I’d try, but I pushed the food around my plate like a picky two year old. “I think I’ll stop cooking,” he said, not accusatory or hurt, just pragmatic. “So far, I haven’t found anything to satisfy you.”
I know I talk about food a lot, but when your husband is a chef and he cooks at least two meals a day, the loss of appetite associated with pregnancy is a big deal.
I hope he doesn’t close the kitchen until further notice. Even if I can’t stomach a full meal, there’s a profound joy and appreciation I experience every time I watch or hear him in the kitchen. And that itself is a gift.