addicted to love

My mouth is a red, burning, festering mess. I've been binging. Again.

No, it's not a pregnancy craving, it's a full-on addiction - one that happens every February when they bring out those infernal cinnamon hearts.

I just can't get enough of the things. I'll start off politely, sucking back one at a time. But before long, it's two, three, even four hearts at a go, and the burning - c'est magnifique!

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a hot food connoisseur. Sure, I like a little wasabi sauce with my sushi, and I can take a medium heat when it comes to spicy foods, but I don't like to push it to a point of endurance.

Cinnamon hearts are a different story. They're sweet, and not actually that hot when eaten in moderation. The problem is, like a crack addict, I can't seem to eat them in moderation. Each one offers a hit that needs to be repeated until, before I know it, the lining of my mouth looks like it was ripped apart by a cougar.

It's madness, I know, but what can you do?

Well, I know one thing I can do, and I had planned to do it this year: Don't take the first one.

My intentions were good. I wasn't even looking when I passed the big vats in the V-Day aisle that greets you first thing when you walk into Stupid Store. Okay, perhaps I glimpsed, because I knew they were there. But that's as close as I was coming to them this year.

Until. . .

I was at an office for an interview last week, chatting with the receptionist whilst waiting for my interview subject to arrive. There, on the counter, was a bowl full of the evil little things. "Look away!" I told my self, "Look away!" I did not succumb. Not even when I had to return later that day to take a picture (of the woman I had interviewed, NOT the candy hearts). But the second time was too much for me. And something overcame me. Something I could not control.

The precious. We wants it. We needs it.

I got in the car and started heading home... past the first possible turn-off to my neighbourhood... and the second... and the third. The car was leading me. Driving me. To Stupid Store. To the V-Day aisle. To the cinnamon hearts. To bliss.

I grabbed a bag and headed through the checkout. I suspect my hands were shaking. "I need it man, I NEED it," I wanted to tell the clerk, my supplier. I headed to the car, lovingly cradling my drug of choice, then ripped into the plastic with animalistic abandon upon getting inside. My eyes shot wildly from side to side as I plunged my greedy fingers into the cache of cold, smooth hearts. I smelled them, deeply, before opening my mouth.

I started with one. Oooooooh! It was so good! It tasted like . . . another. Mmmmm, yeah, baby, hit me one more time!

And now, here I am, with open sores. It hurts to eat real food. But still, the cinnamon hearts go down.

Fortunately, this year I have a husband who cares about me (and our potentially sugar O.D.'d baby) who has seized what remains of the bag of goodness and rationed me out a handful (or two) to do me. Like my safe injection site.

Ah, love is sweet. And spicy. Love is cinnamon.

bump!

Finally, after weeks of good intentions, me and my favourite photographer set aside some time to do some "bump" pictures yesterday. Must stress the oddness of lifting shirt for pictures, especially without a washboard stomach. But then I am almost six months pregnant (one week short), so I'm sure y'all will be forgiving!

sneak peak

Here is Baby Pear Tree at five-and-a-half months. I think I see Kyle's chin.

Front face view:







Side view: