Hormones have finally caught up with me. I find myself not only going to prenatal yoga classes, but loving prenatal yoga classes. I hold my belly and sway, softly singing "May the long time sun shine upon you" acutely aware that this alien inside me has turned me into one of those women. And I'm grateful.
At the same time I frequently find myself completely out of patience over things that would normally go unnoticed. Friends leaving innocuous comments on my Facebook status updates can prompt a 20 minute rant that poor Kurt listens to quietly and nods, smartly saying little to avoid becoming the focus of my wrath. And God forbid you give me any advice. Especially if you've never been pregnant. And no, I don't care if you're a father. Feel free to give me parenting advice, that's fine. Or you can tell me what the mother of your child experienced. But do not tell me what pregnancy and/or childbirth will do to me physically, mentally, emotionally or otherwise. Because you know why? YOU DON'T KNOW. I promise I won't ever tell you what having a penis feels like. Okay?
But really, anyone who knows me will agree that my short-temperedness is nothing new. It just happens to be far more pronounced than it's ever been before. And my threshold is much lower than normal. Today while walking my dogs some dickhead in a Lexus SUV didn't want to wait the extra 30 seconds it would have taken for me to cross the street, so he took off ahead of me, cutting me off in the middle of the crosswalk. The things I imagined doing to him. It used to be something like that would prompt a "fuck you!" and a brief fantasy of pounding my fists into his hood. Today instead my fantasy included a dark alley, a switchblade and his intestines all over the ground. May the long time sun shine upon you, motherfucker.
A couple weekends ago I had what I thought were Braxton-Hicks contractions. It was the first time I really got scared about having an unmedicated labor. That shit fucking hurt. I told my midwife about it and she said Braxton-Hicks don't hurt and that more likely it was signs of early labor.
The other night I told Kurt I wished we had taken a picture of me every day during the pregnancy. I then burst into tears and wept for 15 minutes.
Last night during one of my 57 trips to the bathroom, I was imaging our child at 4-years-old climbing into our bed in the middle of the night after having a nightmare. I thought, "Chicken is going to hate that." Then I thought, "Oh, my God. Chicken probably won't be around anymore by then." I then burst into tears and wept for 15 minutes.
Here is a picture of Chicken in his usual place when I go to the bathroom:
Here is a video of what will most likely be my last public performance before I squeeze this kid out of me. Some of you have seen me do this number before. Being pregnant lends a certain new element to it.
Also, I am pleased to report that my unemployment insurance debacle has finally come to a satisfactory conclusion (for now).