The other day I was talking to a dear friend who is at the beginning of her pregnancy and she mentioned that her kids have become a little wary as she struggles with “pregnancy temper.” I joked that I have been having the same exact problem, followed by a healthy dose of “pregnancy guilt.”
This morning was a prime example. It was so terrible. Seriously, motherhood at an all time low. I came out of my bedroom this morning, feeling completely fine, completely unexpecting any trouble. I fixed Miss 8’s hair into her ballet bun for Thursday. No problem. I grabbed a quick shower, knowing that later today I have to show my face at Miss 6’s school for a music program. No problem.
Then I heard Miss 8 say, I need my shoes. Again, no problem. She says this every single morning and every single morning I tell her not to worry about waking up Miss 2 who is probably awake anyway, and just go get them.
This morning I followed her into the bedroom because I could hear Miss 2 already playing in her crib. Miss 8 is happy. I am happy. Miss 2 is happy. Then I look around and see that Miss 8’s room is pretty messy. She has a pile of half opened birthday stuff on the floor and her bed isn’t made. Problem. I start to hassle her about how she’s going to have to clean it up when she gets home today. (Yeah, right, it’s Thursday, that poor kid isn’t going to be home until late, but I’m not thinking about this.) I glance at the clock, thinking there is probably time to at least get her bed made. So I tell her to make her bed. Now, she used to be a great little bedmaker, but we never make her anymore because now she shares a room with Miss 2. In an effort to keep Miss 2 asleep as long as possible, we abandoned bed making in their room. I have no idea why I’m suddenly bugged about her bed and she doesn’t either.
I know the carpool will be coming soon, so I urge her to hurry up. While she is trying to make the bed, I am unaccountably getting meaner and meaner. Pickier and pickier. Things like, “straighten that sheet,” “that blanket is the wrong way,” “have you totally forgotten how to make a bed?” are coming out of my mouth in a nagging tone. Miss 8 is sagging. Then the worst comes. Dad yells from the other room that her ride to school is here. “Hurry!” I yell. “Get your jacket.” Miss 8 races to her closet. No jacket. She races to the bench where she usually leaves her backpack and school things. No jacket. I am yelling unhelpful things like, “where is it? what are you going to wear?”
Miss 8 is totally freaking out at this point. The jacket is gone. She’s holding her ears and muttering, “I think I know where it is, I think I know where it is.” “Where?” I yell. At this point I have lost all semblance of self control. “Did you leave it in the van?” She runs to the van. No jacket. She is too panicked and probably scared of me, to tell me where she thinks it is.
Meanwhile I am digging an old, too large jacket, that may or may not have a working zipper out of the closet. I throw it at Miss 8. “You’re going to have to wear this old, ugly one!” I am shoving her toward the door as I yell this.
Her goodbye this morning was me, flinging her out the door and yelling, “You’re in big trouble!”
The minute the door closed behind her, I am wracked with pregnancy guilt. I am instantly calm and realize her jacket was probably left at the the church where she was last night. But it is too late. She is gone and I won’t see her until 4:00. I am wracked with guilt for making her morning bad. She is sad. I am sad. My husband is sad because I yelled at everyone and now I am crying about it. Sad. Sad. Sad.
There is one bright spot. One tiny seed of hope that everyone at my house must cling to. This pregnancy will be over in 3 1/2 weeks. Heck, let’s call it three. THREE MORE WEEKS! I know that after that it won’t be an instant return to sanity, but it’s got to be better than this.
