I'm aware as I sit down to write this post that it is the second in as many weeks that has icecream as its focus. This is not a random coincidence.
Because icecream is just about the best thing in the world when you're heavily pregnant. It's cold and refreshing and you can very nearly convince yourself that it's a "dietary requirement" because of your increased need for calcium.
On Sunday I had what was the best icecream ever, but the extent to which I enjoyed it had relatively little to do with the quality of the icecream.
Sunday in Christchurch was one of those hot dry numbers that makes people walk straight under sprinklers. The kind of day when the heat stays around well past midday and is still stifling at 4pm.
Despite an earlier oath to stay the hell away from shopping malls, a quick perusal of the "hospital bag" revealed that I have no nightwear that is suitable to be worn around other people as my repertoire of wearable bed garments has pretty much shrunk (as I have expanded) to a couple of roomy but not overly long t-shirts. A short stay in hospital is on the cards in the near future, and I'm going to assume that no one there is especially keen on seeing my giant pregnant-lady undies, so I thought a bit of nightshirt shopping would be a good idea.
It being such a hot day, I completely abandoned any attempt at sartorial splendour and plodded off in shorts, jandals and one of the few remaining t-shirts that fit me.
Eventually suitable nightshirty attire was got, but not before my feet and ankles had started to protest and despite the airconditioning of the mall I was starting to feel fairly overheated, tired and fed up with the whole endeavour.
And then, off in the distance like a beautiful pink beacon of hope, I saw Wendys Supa Sundaes. I got myself a double scoop in a cone of Baileys and scorched almond and Wicked chocolate.
Within seconds a melty glob of Baileys and scorched almond had landed on the bump. I didn't care.
Small children looked at me enviously as I jandal-waddled past them. I didn't care.
My ankles were puffy and I looked like a complete slob. I didn't care.
I was eating the hell out of that icecream like a ravenous piglet and I just... didn't... care.
It was great. And it was great because I was a hot, tired pregnant woman with sore feet and I felt like that gave me permission to enjoy an icecream with abandon and not really care what other people might think about that.
Which begs the question - how have I been eating icecream the rest of the time?
And the sad answer is, a little bit guiltily? A little bit "yes, I'm having a treat, please don't judge me"? A little bit self-consciously, I guess.
And that's a little bit sad. Because at some point between being a kid (because kids just enjoy stuff that's enjoyable without thinking about it) and now I've acquired "icecream guilt". And that's sad. I understand why, of course. I'm a little bit too keen on treats and not enough keen on physical activity. But what's the point of a treat if you're not properly enjoying it?
So if this post has a message, I guess it's that we should all just get stuck in like raveonous piglets when it comes to icecream. Don't make the world your judge, make the world jealous that it doesn't have a drippy, delicious cone of its own.
Are you enjoying your icecream in the way that you should? Do you feel a little bit self-conscious eating in public?