Ironies

I just taught a class at Stake Women's Conference about what a good idea it is to cook things from scratch. But before and after said class I have eaten more fast food and ready-made food than I have for a while.

Because I've always admired and looked up to the people I've seen teach such classes, I tried to pretend I was the goddess of home cooking. I came home to my filthy house, put the food away, folded 1/4 a load of laundry, and went to Schlotszky's for dinner. I brought home the food to an empty house and cried for myself for no good reason.

I am growing a baby in my abdomen, but I'm the one acting like a (colicky) baby. I sleep all the time, I'm totally picky about what I eat, and I'm crabby and clumsy.

There's a giant gash on my forehead where the crock pot lid dropped from the top of the cabinet. I was getting it down to use for my fabulous cooking class. Cried and cried pitifully after that one too—not because it hurt so much, but because it felt like the icing on the cake inscribed "You're a Faker!"