Everyone knows pregnancy is chock-full of symptoms, and even though no one tells a newbie mom the reality of what they’re in for, they still know a bit. Thanks What to Expect When You’re Expecting!
After you’ve transversed the gauntlet that is first-time pregnancy you sort of know what you’re in for. It’s honestly miserable, but you diminish the experience in your mind in favor of the eventual outcome. After all, each one of us will admit it’s worth it, and that’s the reason we decide to do it again.
On the second trip down preggo lane we’re wiser, and we know what we’re in for. It’s like I know that I’m going to experience morning sickness, and though I’m not having it yet I still remember ligament pain like it were yesterday. I realize I’ll become forgetful, aka pregnancy brain, and I’ll also become clumsy. Or as my loving husband calls it, hooves for hands.
I remember this stuff. I know it’s coming, and though I’m not looking forward to it I’m excited. I’m ecstatic for the grand prize at the end of the race.
But for some reason there’s one symptom I always forget. I don’t know how it surprises me each time, but it does. I hypothesize that I might banish it from my memory purposefully because in my opinion it’s the worst one of all. The bad part is that I therefore am non-expectant of its arrival, and as a result I’m always crushed by my own craziness.
I recall in my fuzzy memory that pregnancy brings emotional frailty. I remember that I will without fault weep like a baby over any commercial accompanied by a musical score. I mildly think I remember something about the term mood swings, but I typically push that thought away with an awkward chuckle.
In my apparent naivety, or perhaps purposeful forgetfulness, I am absolutely ill-prepared for the nuthouse I become when crushed by cruel pregnancy hormones. I always feel seriously bipolar, but have to remind myself that I’m actually just bi-person. My body is carrying another person besides me, and in the conundrum that that miracle brings I become unglued.
Within a space of ten minutes I can easily scream in rage, cry hot tears from heavy grief, and cause myself a sore gut from laughing so hard. And the worse part is that I feel zero control of the situation. Half the time I don’t realize I’m flying off the handle until I hear in shock the very uncharacteristic words falling from my down-turned mouth.
Simple inconveniences become the most frustrating occurrence known to man to my inappropriately sensitive psyche, and it’s like once it gets started I’m on a roll, or rather a landslide I cannot stop.
Just like I can’t prevent the tears from falling over little girls dancing or other happy scenes, I also am utterly incapable of preventing an outburst over minor delays in my overly fatigued day. Cray-cray.
I used to think, back when I was a single gal, that women who talked about hormones were silly. The idea of PMS was foreign to me, and I was certain it was a made-up thing so witchy women could be, well, witchy. I was clueless to the power of hormonal instability. I didn’t know it was coming when I got pregnant, and I especially didn’t realize that my emotions would never return to their baseline norm. And somehow each time I get pregnant I conveniently forget just how mood swingy I will become. Just thinking about it is making me mad. Or depressed.
So if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go cry in a corner. Or maybe laugh hysterically. I’m not sure yet.
As always, despite my whining, I consider all my symptoms a manifestation of the gift I’m growing. Thank you Lord!