Damn These Pregnancy Hormones (Sob! Grrr!)
If becoming a mother turned me into a bit of a softie, becoming a pregnant mother has turned me into an absolute puddle.
Take this morning at the gym, for example. Like usual, I head over to the line of treadmills, facing a wall of mirrors, and find my place among the walkers and joggers. Also as usual, I tune into The Today Show. A story comes on about the San Diego police officer shot and killed at a fast-food restaurant. That alone is terribly, terribly sad, but then they go on to describe a sweet interaction he had with a little kid begging 10 cents off him for a cookie, just moments before he was shot. They even interview the actual kid. Normally, I can weather the mix of emotions a story like this stirs up; allow the sympathy and grief and such to mingle, unnoticeably, then fade. Not now. Not at Week 16. So there I am, navigating a suppressed public cry—tear-clouded vision, knit brow, pursed lips, massive knot in throat. Thanks to that damn line of mirrors, I can tell you with certainty that I did not pull this off well.
A few deep breaths, and I have my Anonymous Unaffected Gym Member face back. But then they move on to the story about the kid here in Minnesota; the one who nailed the long-shot mid-rink hockey goal for $50,000 under his twin brother’s name. It wasn’t the fact that he might not get the money that got me. It was the replay of the kid making the shot—footage I’d seen probably five times before. Again: Face like I am sucking on a lemon wedge while chopping an onion. Awesome.
Then it hit me. Even if the next story is about Matt Lauer’s colonoscopy, it will make me cry. Which leads me to believe that I’ve reached that time in my pregnancy when I should seriously consider relegating my TV-watching to the privacy of my own home.
Actually, it’s probably not that simple. The other day, I saw a woman at the grocery store who looked about ten years older than me. Which made me think about how ten years from now, I’ll have kids past the halfway point to adulthood. Instant tears. Why yes, I AM silently sobbing in the refrigerated section because one day my unborn child will be ten. And?
As much as I wish they didn’t, my hormones do, at times, swing the other way. The other day, Clint was doing god-knows-what completely innocuous act—probably breathing—and it got under my skin. Drove me nuts with annoyance. “I really hope I don’t divorce you before this baby comes,” I told him, which I swear gave us a little laugh. We both know I was not implying that he’s done anything but more than his fair share around the house, including catering to my every crazy-pregnant-lady mood and whim. It’s just that thanks to these hormones, I can, without warning, be just that insane.
Waaah. I’m in the mood for commiseration. Tell me your pregnancy-hormone stories and make me feel better?Add a Comment