My Proudest Moment

I was eight months pregnant with my first child and o-b-s-e-s-s-e-d with food.

On that fateful, dreary winter evening, Hubs and 11-year-old Stepson went to a nearby fast food restaurant to pick up burgers.

I was very specific:

Cheeseburger with mustard, onions and everything else. All. The. Way. Make that extra onions.

What I got:

Hamburger. No cheese. Mayo instead of mustard. And nary an onion.

"This is not what I wanted," I sobbed. "There's ... no (gasp, choke) ...
cheeeeeese... no onion ... They didn't even give me lettuce ... (sob) or tomato -- oh my God, is this mayonnaise?!"

Now try to picture a crazed, gigantic preggo stuffed into sweatpants and a paint-stained T-shirt. Watch as she grabs a slice of American cheese, slaps it on her burger and shoves it into the microwave, ranting about the uncaring fast-food workers and Hubs' seeming unconcern about her dietary needs.

See how Hubs cowers in the living room? See poor Stepson, crouched over his food at the kitchen table, trying to shrink into his chair as the meltdown gains momentum?

"Don't you understand? I wanted cheese. Mustard. And onions... (gasp, sob) How could they get all of it wrong?"

Crazy woman hauls the hamburger from the microwave and examines it.

"The cheese isn't melting! Our microwave is broken. I am STARVING!"

Hubs ducks into the bedroom.

Crazy woman slams the microwave door.

Stepson looks up fearfully from the table. "Um. Here. You can have mine. It doesn't have any onions or mustard, but there's cheese."

Weeping stepmother accepts the offering, and, after scarfing it down in minutes, finally remembers to thank the traumatized boy.

Eighteen months later, she will wonder why Stepson looks so frightened when she announces her second pregnancy.