Food waits for no man

Each day, my expiration time inched closer and closer to daylight hours (or maybe spring was just getting closer). And each evening, my feeding hours inched closer and closer together. Though I've always been an early dinner eater, preferring to eat "supper" (as the southern folk say) no later than 6:00 pm in my less fertile days, my dinner time was pushing the boundaries of knocking on the door of a restaurant before it opened to host early bird specials.

Because my husband's work schedule is sporadic and involves day and night shifts, our dinner routine was no routine at all. This didn't help my feeding pattern whatsoever.

Compound this with the fact that each day after coming home from work, my fatigue level was increasing and my pajama hour decreasing, and we had a recipe for crappy, thrown together meals like tacos + evening news + bedtime prayers then snooze. Not so delicious, and probably not nutritious. It certainly wasn't adventurous.

I actually was once known to plan meals with themes ahead of time - spaghetti and meatballs with red vino and Sinatra playing in the background. The only thing missing was the fat dude smoking a cigar being handn fed in a corner booth. But dessert always included an episode or two of The Sopranos. We've done mexican nights with fresh salsa made from our garden vegetables. The hubs and I have always enjoyed cooking together, especially when a new recipe was involved. But those days seemed like a memory.

After several evenings of cramping my husband's dinner time style by forcing early hours on him and/or less-than-gourmet fare, I felt like a negligent wife. My guilt was increasing as quickly as my waistline.

So one day after work, I mustered the energy and waddled my way through the Winn-Dixie aisles to purchase the ingredients for a special meal to cook for my patient love. I went home with full grocery bags and big dreams of having a meal prepared and on the table the moment he walked through the door after work....kind of like the golden days just a few short months ago when I wasn't a mothership.

I went home and I cooked a meal that took more than 30 minutes to prepare. I marinaded and chopped and stirred. It smelled divine.

And then I waited.

And waited some more.

With food ready and the dinner table set, I continued to wait (and salivate) as the minutes groaned on the stove's clock and my stomach made noises that shouldn't come from a human.

But I trudged on and waited some more.

Surely, he'd be home soon.

Any minute now, right?!

But soon and any minute turned out to be too long for this big lady.

The smells, the fatigue, the gaping hole in my stomach, plus the four feet pounding my ribs won over my plans of being a good wife. I took just one bite to tie me over, but that one bite turned into an avalanche of swallowing (who has time to chew?) and an empty plate.

I might as well have been asleep from a food coma with my face in my plate, when the hubs arrived home....a whole 45 minutes late. Seems the hospital had gone crazy when he would ordinarily be walking out the door, so on duty he remained.

While he worked and I chowed down, I learned that food waits for no man - no matter how much you love him. At least not when you're 6 months pregnant and WAYYY past your feeding time.