Cake Makes Me Happy

Is that weird? That cake makes me so happy? I mean deep down, pit of my stomach, grinning from ear to ear happy? I think it might be, but I'll let you be the judge.

Here's the story: My beloved came home from work with a few bags of groceries I'd asked him to pick up and there was cake in one of them. CAKE. I was genuinely excited to see the Kleenex and juice (I'm sick and needed him to forage for sick girl supplies for me since I'm too pitiful and snotty to venture out myself at the moment) but the cake was unexpected -- and, and just so thrilling. CAKE -- cake on a damp, dreary February day. Unexpected cake. There it was, dark and gooey, sitting in a little plastic dome all chocolatey and full of sweet promise. And my heart leapt. And I smiled. I was at peace -- all was right with the world when I had that one blissful moment of realization that I was going to eat CAKE reeeallllllly soon.

As it so often is, my euphoria was interrupted by the mundane as I finished making dinner and poked through the mail. But then I'd catch site of CAKE again and the flush of anticipation would race through me anew. When I sat down to eat dinner, CAKE left my mind, ever so briefly. But throughout the meal it would pop back into my consciousness every now and then, rekindling the flame of my raw desire.

And then it was time to eat CAKE. And it was bliss. Thick, sticky-icing bliss on a plate. I was happy. It's been an hour and I'm still happy. CAKE is coursing through my veins. We are one.

See? Is this weird? I keep thinking it's just because my beloved surprised me with a sweet treat on a day he knew I needed a little pick-me-up. I keep thinking THAT'S what's made me so happy. I keep thinking HE'S the sweet one, not CAKE. But the thing of it is, CAKE IS sweet and I do love CAKE. I love CAKE a lot.

But of course it goes without saying that I love my beloved more. And maybe, just maybe he'll bring me CAKE again one day soon...

I Miss Me.

I just e-mailed my beloved and asked if he's as tired of my pregnant mood swings as I am. How stupid am I? The poor man can't answer this question. What was I thinking? So now there's a small, sunny office in downtown Toronto covered with the contents of his head. There's gray matter sliding down yellow walls onto scuffed hardwood floors and a MAC that's dripping with the blood of the man I love.

I've blown up my husband. I'm sure of it. His brain went into overdrive trying to figure out the best response (the one that would cause the least violently emotional outburst from me) and it simply blew up.

Men aren't equipped for answering these kinds of questions this late in their wives' pregnancies. Not after 8 months of calming irrational fears, dodging endless "does this make me look fat?" queries, researching morning sickness and heartburn remedies online, watching doctors poke and prod, pretending to see the sweetness in a grainy black and white ultrasound of an alien blob, sitting through breastfeeding classes and just generally soothing, placating, reassuring and comforting.

So this is my public apology to my beloved. Or what's left of him. I'm sorry I asked you if you were as sick of my mood swings as I am. Of COURSE you are -- but I had no right to ask, because I know you can't answer with any truthfulness.

I'm also sorry that I'm at my most exhausted and bloated (and, therefore, freaked out) right about the time you walk in the door after working hard all day long. I'm sorry that the me you married has turned into some other women (who even I don't recognize half the time) who burps and farts with reckless abandon but chastizes you when you do the same. I'm sorry I have no energy and prefer naps to making out. I'm sorry I can't lift anything bigger than a slice of bread, shovel snow or change the cat box (okay, I'm not actually that sorry about the cat box).

I miss me too. But they say I'll be back. Unfortunately I'll be back with a tiny someone whose mood swings will be far worse than anything you've seen from me these past 8 months. Fortunately they say we'll love every single second of it.

So they say, anyway. But somehow I believe them.