If You're In The Mood To Cry, My Husband Can Cook You A Meal!!

Let's take a trip to June of 2002. I'm 7 months pregnant with Ethan. I had a rough pregnancy. Horrible. I had chronic bladder infections. These infections came with no warning. I would wake up in the morning, go to the bathroom and pee blood. And, it wasn't pee with a little bit of blood. It was blood with a little bit of chunks of blood. There was many a time where David was taking me to Urgent Care bright and early in the morning. Our story takes place on such a day.

After we made our trip to the doctor where I spent a good portion of the visit crying in the waiting room, crying in the office and crying at the pharmacy counter, we headed home. I took my medication and took a much needed nap. I guess during this time, David decided to be nice, and went out to pick up things so he could make dinner for me, instead of me making dinner for him. In the past, we'd usually gone out to Denny's or something during this incident. When I got up, David had just gotten home and was all excited about the night's meal. Chicken..Potatoes..Veggies..It was sure to be good. He was going to grill. David does not know how to grill. He plays video games. That's it. He lit the grill. Stared at it. Walked around it. Tried to look like he knew what he was doing. I got bored watching him pretend to strut his stuff with his grilling skills and laid on the couch to watch TV.

About 40 minutes later, he finished dinner, and came back in. We got out plates ready and sat down to eat. It looked like it was going to be REALLY good. I was kinda excited, and that took a lot for me. You see, with Ethan, chicken was my no no food. If I smelled it, ate it, hell, even sometimes even looked at it, there had better be a clear path to the bathroom because I'd probably be having a long talk with Ralph. If David's mom was making chicken for dinner, she usually made something small and different for me. It was that bad. However, this time, nothing bad happened. I kinda missed chicken, so I was OK with this. I grabbed my knife and fork. I poked the chicken. I took a small fork of it. I was about to put it in my mouth when I looked down and noticed that the chicken was bleeding. I looked at my fork. I looked at David. I looked at my plate. I started to cry. I'm not talking little tears. I'm talking full on, shoulder shaking, heaving sobs, cry.

I couldn't stop the crying. I tried. But, every time I looked at my plate, it came back stronger than ever. David couldn't figure it out. It took a good 15 to 20 minutes before I could tell him what the hell was wrong. His chicken had made me cry. He hadn't eaten any because I had started to cry before he sat down to eat. His mom came home at the end of this scene. Can you imagine walking in on that? I didn't think it was funny then, but I do now. David ended up throwing the chicken out and going to the local 24 hour Mexican place to pick me up some tacos. I banned him from cooking anything but breakfast sandwiches. This story is a favorite. Seriously. Someone tells me or my inlaws they know a bad chef, and we're all, "Oh yeah? Let me tell you a story of chicken that made a pregnant woman cry."

So, if you ever need a good cry, come on over to my place. My husband can feed you the chicken that made me cry.