I knew something was wrong when I couldn't finish my BBQ sandwich.
We were spending the day up at Lake Hyco with a friend who had a house there. We'd made a leisurely drive up, stopping at a flea market and to take pictures of a solar farm. Our last stop was at Cookout, where I ordered the BBQ sandwich tray with fries and coleslaw. I took a bite of my sandwich, the delicious pork filled my mouth and made me happy. Then it moved on down to my stomach, and something was off. It was not exactly nausea, but more of a firm STOP communique from my digestive system. Like I'd eaten a rock.
Listen here, stomach, this here is a BBQ sandwich. I had a choice to go to Bojangles and get the spicy chicken, but I wanted BBQ. You don't run the show. Defiantly, I took another bite, received another STOP. I waited a minute or two this time, and slowly the feeling subsided and I began to wonder if I imagined it. I mean, really, why would I stop eating a BBQ sandwich? That is just silly. There are children in Africa who never get BBQ sandwiches. Another bite.
I argued with my stomach for half the sandwich, then gave up sadly. I ate the fries and slaw, which seemed to be acceptable to my mutinous organ. We continued on up to the lake and spent the day drinking on the dock and jet skiing (or watching other people jet ski), before grilling burgers and dogs on the back porch. Beer, burgers, and dogs were all received by my tummy with no rebelliousness. It was a beautiful day at the lake with friends, and I didn't think much about the sandwich incident.
But the next morning, I got up and took a pregnancy test. It was positive. My body was making some kind of weirdo, BBQ-hating baby. I have no real reason for why I took the test. I wasn't what I would call late, but my cycles defy regularity. I guess it was intuition, but mostly it was that sandwich.