It's All About Me!

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Do you know what I am?

In trouble with the law? --No.
Enrolled in classes at the local community college? --No.
In the mood for a milk shake and some fries? --Maybe.
Totally awesome in every way? --Yes, but that is off topic. OK, stop guessing. Really, you’re terrible at this.

I am pregnant—that is what I am. And it stinks. I am not a nice pregnant lady. I am mean and cranky, cross and complaining, ornery and disagreeable even. Believe me when I say: I am not a nice pregnant lady. If you see me coming over the next 7 months grab any women and children with in your reach and run for the hills. Because when pregnant I am continually ready to unleash the worst in myself all over the nearest living creature. (In a pinch, I’ll unhinge on a lamp post or a sink full of dishes.) Check out clerks exchange nervous looks with their baggers when they see my expanding mid section pull into their lane. Perfect strangers offer to take my children into their protective custody when they see the surly looks I manage to radiate at all times. It is not pretty. I do not like being pregnant, not one single bit and I am not afraid to let dear friends or the homeless guy downtown know it at the slightest provocation.

Friends: “How are you?”
Me: “My tummy aches, I have heart burn, I am constipated, I cannot sleep and I have this weird taste in my mouth that no amount of brushing or swishing will free me from! How are you?”

Homeless Stranger: “Spare change for a wounded vet?’
Me: “My tummy aches, I have heart burn, I am constipated, I cannot sleep and I have this weird taste in my mouth that no amount of brushing or swishing will free me from! If I had any spare change I’d buy a gumball in hopes of chewing the taste away!”

See what I mean?

You can well imagine the scene in my bathroom when I saw the positive sign come up on the pregnancy test I had just peed on. Let’s just say I unleashed a highly justified string of expletives that shall not be repeated here. I still cannot believe it—and I’ve known for a while now. In an attempt to shield the innocent from my peevish self I’ve been keeping the whole “I’m pregnant” thing under wraps. My husband, however, cannot wait to tell the world—and we’ve told the kids so keeping the secret is a little pointless now.

Try not to worry your pretty little heads; I think I found the Silver Lining.

I have found one joy in this pregnancy, one ray of sunshine, one bit of happiness (so far). I call my little bit of light: The Excuse. I find that saying to myself, my husband and my children “I am pregnant.” opens up all kinds of bad behavior doors for me. For example, just this afternoon, while at the grocery store grabbing a few essentials I got a whiff of the fresh baked bread. You know the nutrition-less, white, fluffy stuff every grocery store bakery makes in large quantities and sells with garlic butter. Yes, that heavenly manna. Of course, I grabbed a loaf and headed home. More over, for my supper, I downed almost the whole loaf with ½ a stick of butter. “I am pregnant.” Three nights ago at 9:55 pm I decided the only food that would not make me throw up was some Indian Chicken Korma with Nan and a Coke. “I’m pregnant.” My husband was on the phone to all the Indian restaurants with in a 10 mile radius to find some. Every morning, after I get the kids fed, dressed and off to school instead of working out, doing the dishes or even taking a shower—I go back to bed. “I’m pregnant.”

Let me finish this post up. Really, if it were up to me I’d keep this whole thing a secret for another 6 or 7 months. Unfortunately, “The Excuse” is going to make my physical self expose the secret long before my vocal self will. I can feel my butt growing as I sit and type. So, the next time we meet—hold on to your hat because I am going to have A LOT of complaining to do and you are going to be surprised at how round and full of carbohydrates I look.

Try not to laugh out loud.