I’m an emotional train wreck. Last week I found myself feeling particularly needy and emotional, so I told my husband that I didn’t feel like he was being understanding enough that I’m 9 months pregnant and uncomfortable. (Now, to be fair, my husband is a wonderfully loving and caring man. He is actually very good about telling me how much he loves and appreciates me, and he even tells me that I look nice when we all know that I look like a beached whale). Anyway, in response to my anger over his unsympathetic ways, he went into the bathroom and “pre-tore” the toilet paper for me … so that I wouldn’t have to do it. This gesture made me really angry because clearly he wasn’t taking me seriously, and I was in no place to accept his humor. So I cried. But then I realized that I was being ridiculous so I laughed. And then I wet my pants. Which led to more crying.
I also cried this week over an article in Family Circle magazine and an episode of “Fixer Upper,” the HGTV show where a couple fixes up old, dilapidated houses. Neither of these things were cry-worthy.
I can no longer be trusted to make good decisions. I met a friend for manicures last week and decided that the thing to do was to get my nails painted pink. And blue. Some of my nails are now Pepto-Bismol pink, and others of them are turquoise. OH, and it’s color-change nail polish, so when my hands are warm, the polish turns white. And obviously I had them put glitter on top for an added touch of insanity. What on earth was I thinking? I’m a grown woman for crying out loud, not a prepubescent girl. And yet, I have fingernails that look like Easter eggs.
At least it’s just nail polish. I’m currently taking solace in the fact that I didn’t dye my hair purple. OH PLEASE GOD DON’T LET ME DYE MY HAIR PURPLE!
The other day, out of nowhere, I asked my husband if he wanted to split a bag of mini marshmallows with me. And I wasn’t joking. He passed (crazy, I know), so I went ahead and ate most of the bag myself. I didn’t eat the entire bag thought which shows my outstanding level of self-control.
Green Tums are the worst. And yet, there are so many green Tums in the container. I feel like this may be a conspiracy against me.
I’ve outgrown all my regular bras, which means I’ve been forced to start wearing nursing bras. Nothing squashes your self-esteem quite like wearing an unattractive, relatively unsupportive bra, the cups on which could easily be mistaken for a hat.
I haven’t cried about the Tums or the bras but it’s really only a matter of time at this point.
Despite all of the crazy hormones, I’m still not quite ready to be finished being pregnant. I really love my big belly, and I’m not looking forward to the squishy, saggy, ugly belly—the one that has, in the past, prompted my oldest daughter to loudly announce to all of her teachers and classmates, “There’s no baby in there anymore. Now it’s just fat.”—that will be left in its place. I like being able to feel Baby No. 4 wiggle around and know that he or she is totally happy and totally safe in there. Because once Baby No. 4 comes out, all bets are off. For example, I’m off to the pediatrician in a few minutes with my 21-month old because her ear has been leaking yellow goop for almost a week, and I’m just now thinking it’s time to get it checked out. With Baby No. 4 still safely on the inside, that’s one less set of ears I have to worry about.
So, for now, I’ll take the insane hormones and all they bring with them. We’ll see if the same holds true at week 38 …