My home has been taken over by an insatiable eating machine. I refer, of course, to my beloved Wanda. Pregancy has turned her into a sarlacc pit.
I have to hand it to her; she’s still going to work every day and I know she’s be trying not to complain about the sore feet and back, and everything else that comes along with lugging a child around with you everywhere all day, but man, can that girl eat. I mean, all the time. Except when she’s peeing, which she’s doing an awful lot, too. No, scratch that — even that doesn’t stop her from devouring anything within reach. I haven’t actually seen her chowing down on the can but I did step on a sharp corner of a taco shell on the way into the shower this morning. It hurt like hell.
Ever see Little Shop of Horrors? I’m living it. I’ve got this ravenous monster of my own making sitting in my house bellowing “FEED ME!” every five minutes. I’ve had to be really careful when setting down plates in front of her to withdraw my arm quickly, because I’m afraid of losing a hand.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore my wife. I admire her for carrying our baby. She is the best thing that has ever happened to me. But if I suddenly stop posting updates, well, you’ll know what’s happened. Hopefully there will be enough left over to identify me.
I’m doing what I can to be a good husband during what I’m sure is a difficult time for Wanda. I even whipped up a batch of hunger-eliminating energy drink for her, but when I got it home she refused to touch it. She’s got all these silly concerns that my concoction of 37 chemical compounds might be bad for the baby. Can you believe that? I mean, 32 of those chemicals have been certified as safe for human consumption by the FDA. The rest might be on the “unknown” list, but come on, that means it’s at least 86% non-toxic.
Instead, she’s decided she’s only going to eat food from reputable stores, and produce from the non-GMO, pesticide-free section of her garden. It’s a tiny little section, but it’s there. Well, it’s there for now. I fully expect the plants to be completely decimated before the week is up at the rate Wanda’s eating things. She’s friggin’ Pac Man, I tell you.
At this point, we’re about halfway through the gestation process, and I’m not sure this is sustainable. I’m going to have to start having food air-dropped every few hours if this keeps up. A black hole has formed inside my wife. For now, it’s just food, but soon even light won’t be able to escape her gravitational pull.
Sorry, I’ve got to run. We’re out of yogurt. I hope the ferry is still running at this hour. Running out of yogurt is bad.