Papaya Dreams

The Rev. will be home in two weeks. I spoke to him briefly last night and I told him I was to the point where it was like waiting for Christmas. He better show up at the airport in a red Santa suit, bearing lots of presents.

I am not particularly sympathetic when he emails various ailments or complaints. He thinks they are sympathy pains, but I told him he would never understand what I was going through until his chest swelled to the size of grapefruits. Sorry to be crass, but that is the best illustration I could think of at the moment.

He is also sick of papaya, which I gues must grow on trees down there, because he eats it at nearly every meal. I told him I had a tropical fruit trifle waiting for him at home and he threatened to re-decorate our floor with pink puke if I made him eat it.

He is doing really well, though, and his confidence in the language gets better every day. It will be interesting to see how longs it takes for him to get used to American culture again. I may spring some papaya on him just for the sake of memory lane.

I am feeling okay. I begin my 18th week today, and according to my co-workers I possess the official pregnancy glow. I still have my moments where I feel awful, like my body, which is finally adjusting to having this little person inside of it, demanding to be fed every two hours, decides to revert back to pregnancy week number 10. I've stopped with the eating of macaroni and cheese and now I am on an egg kick. Fried eggs, to be exact, which I normally liken to white rubber. Oh well, this rubber tastes good with swiss cheese, bacon, and toast. This kid is going to have a varied appetite. Just wait until my tastebuds come back for Thai. More hotter, more better. I will not be eating papaya any time soon.