It actually happened the night before I left (Monday, March 26th). Frank suggested we go out somewhere, and that my stomach and I choose where we go. I'm sure he was expecting the pasta place around the corner (good salads and bread), or... he was probably expecting that. Not much variety in my world as of that moment.
However, where I did decide I'd like to go, was totally out of the box of eating relative to pregnant Carla.
I had a bright, shining image in my head of a plate of Greek food. Lamb shanks, orzo with a richly seasoned tomato sauce, and oven roasted potatoes. "Let's go to Acropolis", I said.
"Are you sure? I mean, we can definitely go but...you really want to eat meat?"
"YES! I'm positive. Worst case scenario, I'll just eat the orzo, but I have a good feeling about this."
"Allll right! Let's do it!"
With that, Frank and I hopped in the car, and made our way to Greektown, where we shared a meal to the exact specifications of my vision--call it mother's intuition, but I ate more of the lamb than the pasta. It was...an incredible feeling. I imagine it's the same feeling you get when you just make parole for a crime you didn't commit, or you finally don't have to use your emphasema oxygen tank in heaven.
Week 12--I love you.
One pound a week--here I come.
