Making Babies plan. The other night, I ate two plain-- unbuttered, unsalted-- cobs of corn, then ate a full third of a baked sweet potato before I officially went, "Eh," and gave it up. I put butter and sugar on it, but it's still a weird root vegetable, and there's only so much I can do about that. The next night, I made sweet potato oven fries, which were likewise unspectacular (especially in comparison to the afternoon's Independence Day diet of hot dogs and Ruffles). After a breakfast of Cheerios with banana and a half-cup of green tea, I decided I was the most virtuous creature ever to set foot to earth.
Virtuous and brave, too: I made an appointment to see an acupuncturist.
This is less brave than it is the fulfillment of my modest yearnings
for adventure combined with a blessedly absent fear of needles. Lying
on a table with a guy tapping tiny needles into my body seems, to be
honest, a lot easier than eating kale.
The only trick to all this is that we thought Heather was going to be
real easy to knock up, and it took two years for us to feel sure she
wasn't. Now I eat half a plum and am overcome with certainty that I'm
mere weeks away from nourishing life in my womb. It has to happen the
first time to somebody, right?