Caffé Demetre is like a crackhouse for people with a sweet tooth. It’s a “restaurant” that serves desserts ONLY, with fresh ice cream made daily. We’ve gone a few times with friends, but tonight, we went because I wanted something hot & sweet, Chris wanted ice cream, and since Demetre’s is right next to the gym we had been daydreaming about it. The only sweet thing in the house was a quarter of a baked acorn squash w/maple syrup & butter, or a granola bar, so we decided to spoil ourselves.
For all my waxing poetic about the virtues of exercise, I am still a pregnant woman and my husband is still a sweets freak.
I ordered a slice of apple pie, warmed up, with no ice cream; he ordered “Fridges of Madison County”, which is a warmed slice of chocolate pie served with white chocolate ice cream and covered with swirls of fudge. I probably shouldn’t have ordered what I did, since it was tasteless and warmed in a microwave which left the crust mushy and the contents spottily hovering between “refrigerated” and “superheated”. Anyhow. I ate it all, so it couldn’t have been that bad.
It’s interesting how, knowing that parenthood is heading my way, my perspective on kids has changed. I admit to being one of those women that probably annoyed you mothers so much with my barely concealed expression of distaste whenever I heard a crying baby, saw a toddler racing down the grocery aisle, or had to listen to your teenager talk. Okay, I still grimace at teenagers. We had a table of them nearby at Demetre’s and overheard a girl there ask, “So, why did you get your piercings?” — to which the reply was a disinterested male voice: “Well, uh… cuz my parents didn’t want me to.”
Chris and I locked gazes. I smirked. He exhaled, a slow and controlled motion accompanied by the drumming of his fingertips on the table. The girl giggled; Chris flicked a glance over at their table and growled, “I hope our son is not an emo boy.”
I have to agree. I guess everyone has a “stereotype” that pushes their buttons in all the wrong ways, and that’s mine. Hippy, preppy, goth, jock, slacker, overachiever, nerd, whatever… I don’t care. But emo? Fuck. (Dear unborn child: If, in fourteen years, you are indeed an emo, I will have deleted this post because I love you too much to be a judgmental bitch and I should know better than this … either that or because I’m afraid of the poems you’ll compose about how your parents must hate you, which you may be doing regardless… wow, I’m really screwed either way, aren’t I?)
ANYHOW, shortly after this conversation, a trio of women were seated beside us. I am a shy person by nature and certainly not one given to staring, so I didn’t even glance at them. One of the women giggled and said something like “Thank God, right next to the washroom!” Chris grinned and leaned forward to tell me, “They’re all pregnant.”
Sure enough, all three of them were gloriously, bowling-ball-esque pregnant. My little heart swelled with sisterhood, but of course I didn’t approach them. If I had a more noticeable baby bump, maybe; I felt like some sort of imposter for still being able to see my toes. But it felt so nice to have other pregnant women there, likely with the same dessert cravings, enjoying some bonding time together.
PS: To the waiter — sorry! Pregnant chicks get gassy sometimes. Maybe if you hadn’t ignored our table for 15 minutes, you would have walked over at a more opportune moment.