I won’t pretend I was a contender for the “Pregger of the Year” award, but up until now thought I at least deserved a nomination. Things were going great and with only seven weeks left I was planning to get by on cruise control. Little did I know my body had been quietly stockpiling hormones which had miraculously lain dormant for 7 whole months. I should have known to proceed with caution the morning I put a carton of milk in the bowl cabinet and found my car keys nestled in my underwear drawer – tall tales of “baby brain” were suddenly not so laughable. That same day my husband put in an innocent request to watch the first football game of the season at a friend’s house – and there came instant minefield detonation.
A little loopy-ness I can handle – I had been through similar experiences during that time of the month and was armed with the basic understanding from my “how not to let being a woman turn you into a raving maniac” manual that sometimes emotions do not equal actual feelings. I was not equipped, however; for the level of intensity that pregnancy brings to those “purely chemical” emotions. Literally all it takes is one off-handed comment that may or may not have been offensive, and may or may not have even been directed to you, and your pity party is in full swing. Not to mention the tears, oh the tears. They come pouring out as if God has now tasked you with keeping the world’s water supply replenished. Burning buildings, dried up birdbaths, dying peonies – all restored with your tears. You just CAN’T STOP. And you look to your unsuspecting victim for solace since there must be something he can or should do to stop the crying, but a room full of fresh cut flowers and a litter of puppies would only make you cry more.
I’ve become accustomed to my new life as a human sprinkler system and was seriously contemplating adding the daily weepings to my Outlook calendar so I’d at least have control of when if not why. Fortunately my frightened husband had the good sense to sit me down and have a talk about what we should do in this new stage of pregnancy. Though there are specific actions I decided he could take (look away from the TV when the cheerleaders come on during a game, don’t ask me why I’m eating ice cream again, tell me you love me, pretend I’m sane), I ultimately remembered the “emotions DO NOT equal actual feelings” lesson by talking through the crazy. The fog has been lifted (I think) and all I have to do is add a buffer before reacting – breathing exercises, or a bar of chocolate. So until the baby comes, I apologize in advance to my husband – I don’t hate you, I know you don’t think I’m fat, and I do want you to be the father of my child.