Lil' dude, most women, when pregnant, crave food. They have tiny, hungry little jellybeans in their bellies, just like Mama when you were in her tummy. And you were one hungry little jellybean . . . just ask The Dad!
People like your grandmas and other older people say that pregnant women crave weird things, like ice cream and pickles; or pizza with peanut butter on top; or Fruit Loops with Kool-Aid instead of milk. That was not the case when it came to me, however. I craved normal food- just loads and loads of it.
You know how at the movies, there are written words on the popcorn containers? Those words say who helped this popcorn makes its way into the movie theatre and into your little hands. Well, when I was pregnant with you, I should have had written words on my belly saying "Hunt's Spaghetti Sauce" because that is who helped you make your way into this world!
All I ever wanted when I was busy growing you from a tiny jellybean into an 8-pound baby was spaghetti. Spaghetti! Not that crazy, right? Well, I wanted spaghetti for two meals a day almost each day of the week. Just noodles with butter and garlic and spaghetti sauce with Italian sausage and spices ladled over the noodles. With shredded Parmesan cheese on top! More spaghetti please! The Dad, he began to hate looking at spaghetti. He made me go visit your aunties when I wanted spaghetti again. He wanted some pork chops or spicy chicken stir-fry. Not spaghetti. Not again! But, Mama couldn't help it. We wanted spaghetti, didn't we, peanut? That is all we ever wanted.
Then, you showed up and my affinity for Hunt's returned to normal levels. The Dad and I now have spaghetti for dinner maybe once every three weeks or so. But, I still smile so big when I take the can opener to the top of the can of Hunt's sauce, thinking of all the people at the Hunt's office getting big paychecks thanks to you and me and all the cans of sauce we went through when we were busy working on making you big and fat and long and ready to come out and play. They never had it so good!
Last night, I made spaghetti and meatballs for The Dad and I for dinner. And you seemed like you really wanted to help me. So, I let you help me cook . . . we wore matching cooking gear, even.
Right now, sweetie, you are too little to have any spaghetti with Mama and Daddy at dinner. I suspect when you do have your very first bite, though, you will think, this tastes awfully familiar. Why do I feel like I have had this before?