Pregnancy does crazy things to a person. You always hear about weird food cravings, emotional roller coasters, and the giant belly. The thing that I craved was meat and lots of it. My pregnancy brain was trolling Pinterest when I came across a recipe for Greek yogurt chicken. It looked and sounded good so I made it for one night. Superman took one look at the chicken and thought it was gross (it was the first time in our marriage that he ever said anything negative about my cooking).
I scarfed down the chicken and my prego taste-buds cheered. The next day I was really looking forward to leftovers. That night I pulled out the chicken. It now smelled and looked different. I microwaved the chicken hoping it would bring back the appeal. I picked up the now greasy chicken and took a bite. All that nausea that had left weeks ago returned with the nasty taste of reheated yogurt chicken. I grabbed the cute yellow and white bowl and sprinted to the trash can. After spitting the chicken into the trash, I tried to dump the contents in the bag as well. My fingers were covered in grease, the bowl slipped from my hand. It was a slow motion scene as I watched one of my favorite ceramic dishes tumble to the faux hardwood kitchen floor. The impact broke the bowl into two pieces (amazingly no fragments).
I crumpled to the floor in a narwhal ball of tears. Superman hearing the commotion rushed over and found me on the floor with the two pieces and trying to stick them back together. I sobbed that my favorite bowl was broken. He worked very hard to hold back his laughter. He told me to go get cleaned up while he took care of the mess.
For some reason the bathroom has been my designated cry place since we got married (I think it’s because there are tissues to clean up my gross snotty mess). I rushed to the bathroom, and in true prego style, I had to pee. As I sat on the john, I noticed that there, on my maternity jeans (the ones that fit the best) was chicken all over the legs. I rushed from the bathroom tears streaming down my face. “I have chicken pants!” All composure left Superman. He busted out laughing. I looked at the kitchen, my pants, the bowl and realized that it was hilarious. I stood there crying and laughing. That night I sat down and drew that picture of a chicken wearing pants. It has been on our fridge forever reminding us to look for the funny in the tragedy.