I love food. Christopher is a "eat to live" kind of guy--he's amazed at my "live to eatedness." I love to cook, sniff, taste, talk about and shop for all things gastronomical.
Those days are gone for now. I have been choking down all the wonderful treats people have brought us, because I have to be able to do things like walk and think. But given a choice I'd rather leave the food to rot and just not nourish my mean old body.
Quite frankly, I'm mad at my inner workings. What the hell were you doing, uterus--sleeping on the job? How could you let my tiny, defenseless baby die? It was YOUR job to keep her safe, hold her, protect her. You really let me down, bod. We've been through some tough times before, but this is beyond anything I'd thought you capable. Are you still mad at me for making you run the marathon? Is this payback for all the bad things I've ingested, inhaled in the past?
I know I have to eat. If I want to move forward in my life, in my family's life, I have to be nourished and healthy and whole. I need to look at mealtime as preparation, training for the future. But damn, that food's not going down easy.