According to the old wives’ tale, women who are pregnant with boys crave red meat. Something about boys needing more iron, or that they like to mess with your intestines long-term. Whatever the reason, it was true for me. I craved red meat.
But that’s not really true. I was specific. I didn’t just want red meat. Although steaks were pefectly lovely, they couldn’t hold a candle to my one true love during pregnancy: hamburgers. cheeseburgers. Cooked ground beef on a plate. Whatever. I wanted it. I needed it. Heaven help you if you stood in my way of getting it.
The funny thing about this? Before pregnancy? I really could have cared less about hamburgers. They were OK. So-so. But while pregnant? A gift from the gods. Inspired creations. Necessary for life.
I have no idea how many I ate, only that each and every one of them was completely necessary at that time. We’d go to a restaurant and I’d be looking at the menu thinking that this time, THIS ONE TIME, I wouldn’t order a burger. But the belly would rumble and the Sea Monkey would start doing backflips and front flips and I’d start salivating like Pavlov’s dogs. When I was 7 months pregnant the THOUGHT of eating another hamburger repulsed me. But that would trigger something in my brain: Did someone say burger? And so I’d have to have one.
Oddly enough, I never sent the hubby out for a late-night craving run. I asked him one, teasingly, if he would even go out if I asked. He said no. He was probably joking, but it was enough for me NOT to ask him to go out the one time I was really craving … you guessed it … a cheeseburger.