Monday, April 4, 2016


I sat on the couch, surrounded by boxes, fighting back angry tears.  With half my kitchen packed up, Will and I were at the mercy of the pizza delivery guy --- and he was late. 

Way late. 

Two and a half hours late. 

“Where the !@#$ is this guy?!” I screamed.  By now I was pacing the cardboard laden apartment.

Poor Will sat white knuckling his phone.  “I… I don’t know, boo.  They’re usually on time.”

“I HAVE to eat, Will – you don’t understand!”

“Okay.  I’ll call again.”

This hunger was desperate.  I had never experienced anything like it.  I was Shirley MacLaine and that pizza was the shot to end my child’s agony.  All she had to do was hold on ‘til 8 and its past 10:30.  GIVE MY FETUS THE FOOOOOOOOD!!!

This was not my only meltdown. 

A week prior I became completely overwhelmed by a plumbing fixture catalog.  Ironically, the only place I felt safe was the tub.  There I sat fully clothed, curtain drawn until I decided which shower head to buy for our master loo.

Fast forward to week 12:  sobbing alone in a work bathroom stall because I couldn’t recall the last time I looked deeply into my husband’s eyes.  Moments later I would think of nachos and feel much better.

This pregnancy schizophrenia baffled Will.  “You’re only a little pregnant” he would say “how could you already feel this [hungry/moody/tired]?” 

I wanted to be mad at that question, but the truth is I was confused too.  I was once a sane person.  How did I go from 0 to 60 seemingly overnight?

The answer of course is hormones.  Estrogen and progesterone may be vital to the construction of human life but they also make you a sweaty, snotty, tender, exhausted raving bitch-monster.

I'm happy to report that with my first trimester coming to a welcomed close, I'm finally feeling a little more stable. 

But make no !@#$ing mistake --- I’m still not sharing my mozzarella sticks. 

Especially when they arrive three hours late.

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