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     I just ate a box of pierogies. The entire box. This was not my intention when I set out to make dinner. In fact, it was the last thing on my mind when I came home from work. My husband took the kids see my niece perform in a play downtown, which left me home (on-call for work, but still home) alone. Knowing that I could take a nap, eat whatever / whenever I wanted, take a relaxing bath, and anything else my heart desired, I chose NAP. The couch just looked too comfortable to pass up after a very long day at work. So, before I knew it, I was cuddled up with the pillows and my soft, green throw, waiting until sleep overtook my fattening body.
     But just as I was about to drift off, I felt a very familiar pull coming from deep inside of me. I recognized it immediately as The Pangs of Hunger. Pre-pregnancy, I would've ignored such a calling and moved on with the nap (.... actually, pre-pregnancy, I wouldn't have dreamed of taking a nap in the first place, so, scratch that, I would've eaten anyways.). However, now that my belly has a life of it's own (hello, Pun), I've learned to eat whatever I can get my hands on and as soon as possible when the pangs arrive... if I choose to ignore this hunger, vomiting is sure to follow! So, I jumped (heaved) up and ran to the kitchen in search for something non-nauseating. Salad? ugh, gag.... Mac 'n' cheese? eh, that is sooo yesterday's accident. Tuna fish? oh my gosh, seriously? Not even on a GOOD day! Pierogies? PIEROGIES!! Ah, yes! Butter, onion, parmesan, garlic, potatoey-noodly-goodness? I needed it in my stomach as of 10 minutes ago, so I whipped out my ingredients and fired up the skillet.
     And this is where my problem occured. I tore the top off the pierogie box and began dumping in an amount that looked satisfying to this Mama that had been puking on and off all week, unable to eat nearly enough to even begin dealing with the 3rd bout of constipation creeping in. Needless to say, I was hungry. Perhaps a bit too hungry. After I finished pouring, I went to re-close the box, only to find that a meager three pierogies remained. Three, lonely pierogies, destined for freezer-burn, stared back at me in a plea to be warmed in a butter bath.  Ah, crap.... I can't just leave three.... that's not even enough for an appetizer! I did the only thing that could be done and I plopped the remaining potatoe noodles into the skillet. There was a satisfying sizzle as they thanked me.
     Fifteen minutes later, I sat with my platter of food as I caught up on this week's episode of Parenthood. (Fitting for a mother-to-be, right?) I dug in and was doing pretty well, until the wall hit me. And guess what? There were three pierogies left on my plate. Those little buggers had tricked me! They knew there was no way I was going to finish them, but they just HAD to be cooked, didn't they! I pushed my plate away in disgust as nausea stopped by to say hello. And as I sat there cursing my dinner and pleading with my stomach to take a chill pill, I vowed never to eat another pierogie again. I took the plate to the kitchen and curled back up on the couch for another 20 minutes as my stomach started to finally settle. Thankful for the relief, I returned to the kitchen for a glass of water.
     "Oooo, pierogies!" I said to myself excitedly.... and then I housed the three noodles down like I'd been in a prison camp for the last decade. I'd like to say that I'm ashamed of myself, but I know that if I had to do it over again, the results would've been the same. So I'm accepting my fat-kid status and moving on with my life. I mean, come on, my stomach is an idiot if it believed my vow to never eat another pierogie again anyways, so it had what was coming to it... which, incidentally, turned out to be three more pierogies.

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