Pregnant? Cooks can't be pregnant!

I kept the fact that I was pregnant a secret for awhile. The thought of being treated delicately was not something I wanted when I was trying to prove myself. Although delightful, the surprise had me wondering how I'd balance my career as a cook with being a mother. Julia Child never got pregnant. Hmm.
I decided I would quit when I was six months pregnant. Meanwhile, rumors swirled and my bladder grew smaller. Time blew by, and, nervous as I was, I spoke to my chef about putting in my two weeks notice. She seemed disappointed, but not all that surprised, given the high turnover rate of employees.
"May I ask why you want to leave?" she said.
Unable to contain myself, I tearily explained that I didn't want to, but had to because I was pregnant. She hugged me and somehow(even though I secretly looked forward to days of lounging around) convinced me that I didn't necessarily need to quit.
I was relieved.

I continued to work as my belly expanded. Each week I went up a new uniform size: 34, 36, 38... On days when we were out of the larger pants, I had to make due with undone buttons and a makeshift belt made of plastic wrap (which poses a problem when you need to pee every fifteen minutes and you can't untie the darn thing).
My coworkers, some of the most awesome people ever, were nice enough to throw me a baby shower. The pastry girls baked the best cake I have ever tasted- and then refused to share the recipe! Very strange. I was told I could find it in the recipe book. Not so. Come to think of it, I also wanted this Lemon Basil Verbana sorbet recipe and never got it. =o|

Anyway, the best part about being pregnant and working the Garde Manger and Pastry stations was the unlimited access to made-fresh-daily ice creams. I took advantage of the whole being pregnant thing and milked it for all it was worth. I was frequently caught poking my head in the freezer to explore the ice cream selection. Once, the grill cook forgot to make a steak I had requested, and I looked down at my belly and patted it, saying, "It's ok, baby- no steak for us tonight..." to which everyone responded, "Awwww.." and I got my steak and then some.
That's not to say I didn't work my butt off. It was tough being on my feet- bending and lifting and waddling- when it already felt like I had a case of beer strapped to my abdomen. I hoped that all the exertion would force me into early labor, but quite the opposite happened.
Three weeks before I was due, I finally called it quits and spent the time resting up and showing my Mom around town. The due date came. And went. Ultimately, we had to induce labor. A whole day later, out came little(big) baby Max! He's the sweetest thing and I attribute that to my ample consumption of delicious ice cream.