The geeky mom likes pizza. Normally, that’s a taste that I will not only indulge, but encourage wholeheartedly. Papa Johns. Pizza Hut. Papa Murphy. Amore in Spring Hill. Mellow Mushroom. Delicious.
Pizza is a central tennant of our relationship. Because I’m such a picky eater, I thought pizza would be a safe first date dinner for us. Little did I know that suggestion would ignite such an inextinguishable flame of passion in my soon-to-be-wife. Later in our relationship, Maryalice gave it to me straight: “You had me at ‘Mellow Mushroom.'” I’m a genius.
Lately, however, our pizza enjoyment is changing. Apparently, the geeky baby likes pizza, too. A lot. I mean, a LOT. There have been no midnight runs for pickles and ice cream, no demanding cries for avocados and peanut butter. Instead, there’s pizza… or calzones… or stromboli… or more pizza. Forget the flowers, the most tender, touching gift I can bring home these days is a large pepperoni with half sausage/half ground beef.
I fear for my 25-year love of pizza. This pregnancy is pushing my pizza enjoyment to the limits. I feel like a champion competitive hot dog eater, carefully balancing indulgent cheesy goodness with race-to-the-finish-line obsession.
Tonight, we try a new pie: Joey’s House of Pizza in Spring Hill. Will Joey’s satiate the mad cravings of my gorgeous (and amazingly fit), pregnant wife? No, it won’t. But that’s cool. I don’t mind having a marriage based on faith, love, and pizza.