I have recently come to the conclusion that the most momentous occasions in my life have been crowned with some of the most disgusting (read: delicious) food experiences. I don't know what it is about success that makes me want to eat a pound of bacon - but it just does. It all started around my first communion when my parents decided to let me choose what I'd like to eat on this most Holy of occasions. I mean, really, how poorly could I choose? I had been brought up in a house that contained shelves of powder that would magically turn into food after only 6 or 7 hours of hard mother labour. A mother who could also make 10 meals out of 1 potato and 4 carrots. So when given the choice at the age of 7 as to whether I'd prefer to have a meal made completely out of root vegetables by my slave mom or...something else...I chose Harvey's. In a matter of one hour I ingested both the Body of Christ and a greasy Hamburger with cheese. It was pure perfection.
This greasy ritual of mine continued throughout the years with descriptions of my most memorable moments sounding like this, "It was such a beautiful day, I've never felt or looked better. Then I got the most insane urge to eat poutine and I had indigestion for the rest of the night." Even the day after my wedding my husband woke up to his new wife and a plate of bacon. No eggs. No hash browns or sliced fruit. Just about 25 pieces of steaming country bacon and a glob of ketchup that I had dug up in the hotel kitchen. After I witnessed the smile spread across his face I knew this was a marriage built on the solid foundation of a love for smoked pig. What more could we need?!
So it only makes sense that after the birth of my second child at 6:20am on Easter Sunday that I would find myself in the drive thru of a MacDonald's at 8:15am.
(By this point in my post you will be most surprised to learn that I in fact do not weigh 400 pounds.)
I'm not sure how well versed you are in mathematics and time but you've probably noticed that the time between giving birth and ordering my McBreakfast was pretty short. My midwife had an Easter egg hunt to get to and wanted to know if I just wanted to skidaddle once she confirmed that I wasn't bleeding to death. Hey that's cool! Maybe we could just get everyone to beat my legs as hard as they could to get the epidural to wear off? I mean why stay in this shitty hospital when I can suck in some car exhaust while waiting for my ceremonial grease at the closest drive thru? Plus I wouldn't want you to miss your fucking Easter Egg hunt on account of me creating life and all. (Just kidding - I really liked this midwife and if it wasn't for her I probably would have eaten jello instead of my awesome McWickedMuffin)
So once they discovered that my left leg was still fully compromised by the anesthetic they offered to roll my body off the bed and into a wheel chair so they could catapult me into my car. (I'm exaggerating, it was more like a drag and throw). How could I complain? My child was awesome and healthy, Jesus Christ had risen from the dead and there was a MacDonald's on the way home. Someone just kick my stray limb into the car and we'll be on our way!
So I am now the mother of 2 girls. Two wonderful girls. I can't wait for all the things they will accomplish in life. God help me if one of them makes it to the Olympics or Broadway...
Just thinking it makes me want to barbeque a hamburger and sprinkle it with a large dose of bacon. Dang!
