The first twelve weeks of our Peace Corps training we had fairly extensive language courses: some Spanish but mostly Guarani, the Paraguayan indigenous/national language of twelve syllables and Kermit the Frog-like inflections.
One day I was paired with my good friend Bill and a girl we’ll just call Gertrude. In typical random language class fashion—maybe we were practicing the subjunctive—our teacher asked us to describe a movie we’d write and direct.
I’ll admit that before Kelly got pregnant I didn’t much question the dominant cultural portrayal of pregnant women as captive to raging hormones, irrational impulses, and unpredictable food cravings. So I was surprised and, for both our sakes, quite pleased that Kelly has almost entirely avoided the former two elements. The ravenous bit, well, there might be some truth in that.
But let me put this in context here.
When we lived in a small village in rural Paraguay for our Peace Corps assignment, we’d go out and visit local families. We had a policy of only doing so well after lunch, because when we visited at lunch we were considered guests of honor and were served the best they could offer, and often the best they could offer was mondongo.