So, this pregnancy thing sort of turns a lady into another person, doesn’t it? I am fairly certain that, on an average day, I shift back and forth between 47 different personalities. This doesn’t bother me so much, because I rarely notice that it has happened. Except when I catch my head spinning around in circles and projectile pea soup flowing from my face (obviously this is a slight exaggeration but, the pea soup thing? Not so far from what is actually happening once or twice a day…) And I wouldn’t feel so bad about the personality shifting at all, except that My Beloved often gets caught in the crossfire. And, you know, seeing as there is no definitive way to tell when a “shift” will occur, I find that most often he is cowering in a corner trying to escape my wrath. And, of course, that would be the exact moment that I need a hug. And then I am hurt that he doesn’t use his spidey-sense to know that I need a hug and climb out of the fetal position and give me one. And then I start to cry because, “OH.MY.GOD. He doesn’t even love me!” and “Why am I going through all this horrible hostile body take-over madness for someone who is OBVIOUSLY going to leave me? Probably tonight! Where is the suitcase?” Meanwhile, my poor beloved has no idea what has happened. Have I told him that I wanted a hug? No. And now I am hysterically crying and packing the suitcase full of his things and incoherently insisting that “he just leave me. I am a big, pregnant ball of hideousness and he deserves better.” Has he any idea what has just happened? No. He was thinking about playing, “Gears of War” and now he is, evidently, moving out.
And it isn’t just the intense irrational sadness. There is also irrational anger. It is quick and fierce and likens me to Hitler. Because as soon as the hysterical crying has stopped, I am, naturally, hungry. Because being crazy and irrational works up an appetite. And then I want there to be something very specific and delicious to eat and I need it to be AT. MY. FINGERTIPS. And I need it to be there right now. RIGHT NOW. And MB should know what that something specific is and should have it piping hot and ready to eat at the instant my little, insane heart desires it. And then the conversation goes like this:
“I really need a barbequed turkey sandwich and french fries. And macaroni and cheese.”
“Okay, I will run out in a just a minute and get you all of that.”
“Okay, but I have really bad heartburn and I really need to eat.”
“You know, I have had really bad heartburn for the last couple of hours, it is really weird.”
“Look. There is an alien growing in my abdomen and I have had heartburn for six WEEKS, and I really need to eat food. I am sorry that I don’t seem sympathetic about your heartburn but I think I have trumped you. Sandwich!”
Naturally, the conversation ends, sandwich is delivered and half of it is eaten (because you know, once I got that specific thing, I realized that what I really wanted was fried chicken) and then I need a hug. But MB has taken his place, cowering in a corner.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.