Ravenous Upon the Joy

So back when my little BooBoo had the colic real hard, my Dad and my Beard's Mother were leaning on me super heavily to give him rice cereal in his bottle. Or as my slightly still English Dad put it,
"Just a little pear puree, my darling. The young man is perfectly capable of handling it I'm sure."
This of course, during a time that the young man in question couldn't handle any presence of wheat in my breastmilk.
So here we are, three months later, colic firmly in the rear view mirror (THANK ALL THE DARK POWERS OF FISHER PRICE OR WHATEVER), and all the baby lit both electronic and printed states that BooBoo is ready for his maiden voyage on the good ship solid food as soon as he has reached the following milestones:

1. He is six months old or older
2. He is interested in food and actually grasps at what I am trying to eat
3. He can sit up unassisted

 In a little less than a week, we will have unlocked level number one.
He's been trying to hijack my fork since about four months old, so we're good on number two.
But number three is still not quite nailed down.
We can sort of hold ourselves up if Mummy is there to provide back support, but the moment she takes her hand away, we list somewhat violently to port or starboard, and the ship does not sail on.

So let's talk about Mama then. Since we might not be starting the pear puree for another couple of weeks, Baby is still exclusively breastfed (or as the cool kids call it ebf), and this means my little wad of cookie dough, who is pushing twenty pounds is SUCKING THE LIFE RIGHT OUT OF ME.
Seriously though.
Before I got pregnant, I considered myself somewhat of an amateur distance runner.
I used to start with three and four mile runs in March and by mid to late summer I would run a half marathon, then scale back down as the bad weather encroached, and take Late December to March off because eff New England's treacherous sidewalks, and eff treadmills in gyms. Eff gyms in general. I've never been able to get down with the spectacle, theatre in the round, bread and circuses bullshit of working out in a cement box with other showy-offy humans. We're grunting, heaving, pushing ourselves to do things that we probably shouldn't, and there's a good chance at least one bodily fluid is going to come out of us during the experience. Why the hell would I want to do this around other people, let alone in the bizarre stadium set up of the modern gym?
Anyway...I digress.
So around August, when I was in peak running form, I would turn into a metabolic wonder.
As a sluggish teenager with severely sedentary reading and brooding habits, I never experienced the joys of a speedy metabolism. I never had that insatiable teenage appetite, or anything like it. My idea of a big meal was setting up a full tea service, bringing it to my bedroom, and working through it over the course of Sunday afternoon while I did my homework. Yeah...I had so many friends.
So the first summer I ever ran real distance, my need for food surprised me.
I HAD to eat.
I had to eat a lot.
And I had to eat the right stuff. Lots of white carbs for running fuel, plenty of protein for building my muscles, and heaps of bananas for potassium and recovery.
Yeah...so cake and peanut butter mostly.

Of course, when I got pregnant, I shelved the running shoes, and paid very close attention to my diet.
I wanted to build my baby out of the best nutrients I could.

Which brings us to here.
Now.
I am juicing my melons at least once every two hours into this kid, and he is gaining steadily.
I am also incapable of satiating my hunger.
Sure, make all the delicious virgin sacrifice jokes you want, and anytime you want to swing by my place with a spit-roasted sixteen year old with an apple in his/her (I'm not picky) mouth, you are welcome, but seriously, I am dying here.
We theoretically start solids in two-ish weeks, after the doctor appointment, the okay go ahead, the sitting up without lolling over like a drunken old man, etc.
But for the next two weeks, how the hell do i survive?
Turns out eating without wheat is hella difficult.
Like all I want is pizza.
Always.

Oh, and dear national donut day,
go fuck yourself,
love,
me.

Shit that I never even craved while pregnant is sounding better and better because just in case you were wondering, smoothies last for about an hour, trail mix, unless eaten by the pound, also lasts about an hour.
I can consume a salad the size of my child with cheese and chicken and avocado, and about two hours later, I am crawling out of bed and scavenging the fridge for leftovers, often times I settle for a container of greek yoghurt with a generous spoonful of peanut butter stirred in. It's cold, creamy, and shuts up the tummy demons for about three hours, and then...well...then I'm creeping again like some kind of terrifying scavenger bird with a baby hanging off one boob.

Anyway, this is more of a whinge than a blog, and I guess a cry for help?
If anybody has the terrible misfortune of being celiac or has to be wheat free for other reasons, and has some magnificent secret they feel like sharing, please please please share along.
Because I'm one brazil nut from turning into a squirrel.