Excuse Me, I'm Pregnant
There are several things I like about being pregnant: I can wear all those tops that have languished in my drawer, forlornly awaiting the miraculous day I achieve infomercial-worthy weight loss, because suddenly my rotund belly is no longer unsightly, but ‘beautiful’; I can ignore the fact that ‘eating for two’ is a deceptive and outdated concept, to justify eating two jam doughnuts in a sitting; I’m permitted – no, encouraged – to put my feet up instead of slaving for hours over cleaning chemicals and heavy washing baskets; and of course, a sweet little baby will soon pop out of my nicely pre-expanded birth canal.
Pregnancy being what it is, however, I’d be lying if I said there weren’t things I didn’t like about it. Sure, the closest I’ve come to Hollywood-movie morning sickness was my pregnancy-sensitised stomach rebelling violently at the taste of an envelope I’d just licked, or the couple of times my mouth decided my tooth-brushing made it too clean, and therefore ordered my breakfast to make an encore appearance. I’ve never had high blood pressure, swelling, varicose veins or haemorrhoids, or (thank merciful God) a cyst growing on top of a haemorrhoid, a phenomenon I’d never imagined in my most tortured nightmares before some woman gleefully volunteered that particular personal experience in my unwilling hearing. And while I do suffer with daily heartburn, seemingly constant low-grade illnesses from lowered immunity and the normal discomforts associated with foetal cells multiplying rapidly inside one’s uterus, it’s the invisible symptoms that seem to wreak the most havoc.
I’m talking about hormones, those insidious chemicals that have surged through my body like a tsunami of craziness, leaving me awash in aggression, irrationality and paranoia. At least this time I’m prepared for the occasional-to-frequent appearances of Mrs. Hyde, unlike during my first pregnancy when I angrily snubbed my entire bewildered family for two weeks until unburdening myself of exaggerated slights and grievances during a tearful accusatory phone call to my mother from the sick bay at work. Now I’m experienced enough to know that what seem like deliberate attempts by my family and friends to offend and anger me, probably aren’t. However, this realisation does nothing to appease the beast inside, a beast which scoffs at attempted restraint and even the outpourings of a vitriolic blog, instead demanding BLOOD! (or at least lots of swearing and rude hand gestures.)
So it is that I find myself yelling and cursing at other drivers on the road like I haven’t since my callow child-free days (only when the children aren’t in the car with me, of course – what do you think I am, one of those chigger mums whose children’s first word is ‘f***’?). Or I wallow in maudlin contemplation of horrible news stories I normally try to forget for the sake of my own sanity, and weep indulgently at tragedies in movies and books. I harbour resentment against perfectly nice people for causing mild negative effects on my life through no real fault of their own. I find irritants and insults and disdain for my condition in the actions of acquaintances and strangers alike. In short, I’m grumpy, irritable, scowling, bellicose and prone to flash-floods of tears, with none of the self-control a normal functioning adult member of society usually employs.
Yeah, pregnancy hormones. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
