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.
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.