The not-so-sweet sound of the hormone harmonica.
It has happened before and I am not saying it won't happen again. No promises there. I will try to be vigilant about my mood swings but man! when it swings...its Pretty.Badly.Swung!
Don't believe me? Ask M. He may answer you if when he comes out of shock, shuts his hanging jaw and splashes cold water on his face. Yesterday evening, I left him like that, before turning over in bed and promptly falling asleep. But I am getting ahead of myself...
I am married to a man who hangs his clothes on pegs behind the door (i.e doesn't leave them on the floor), almost never leaves a wet towel on the bed, changes the toilet paper roll, pays bills on time, fills the ice trays, saves money for the future and is the champion of lazy cuddling. So far so good. ok. He is also a man who nearly has the door coming off the hinges from all the clothes hanging on it, he never agrees that the fans/sheets/curtains are dirty enough to be cleaned, seldom does his own laundry, never remembers to pick up clothes from the clothesline when he does, finds folding clothes before putting them in the closet "a gross waste of time", can use the same towel forever until it runs threadbare without thinking of putting it in the wash , habitually wipes his wet/dirty hands on his jeans/t-shirt and uses dirty socks for target practice as he sits on the bed, takes them off and aims for the laundry basket (he seldom makes the "basket" because he fails to notice the lid on it). Most of all, it doesn't help that he is a man of few words. Monosyllables are his thing and he uses them minimally.
On most days I try to focus on the first half of the last paragraph. On most days, I am also not hemorrhaging with hormones. Occasionally (once or twice a month) when I am, it causes confusion, tears and commotion. Usually in that order. Then its back to status quo.
Being pregnant means that I now, thanks to the overload, get to extrapolate all this and take my dissatisfaction up several notches. Yesterday, it seems (as later revealed) I mistook his stray off-hand minimalist comment about the mango I was going to put in my oatmeal to mean something entirely different than what it was intended to mean (or at least that's what he claimed when we decided to "talk" about it)
He: You're eating that?
I hear: You fat woman, you're going to eat that Mango?
Me (Aloud): Yes. Why?
He: Couldn't you find better... (implying, as later explained, the one I had was too ripe)
I hear: Can't you find something better to eat?
Me (Aloud and hissing): I will eat what I want to eat. ok! ok?
This was followed by several hours of stony silence on my part and him going on with his life like nothing had happened, which made me go from mere stony silence to steely resolve to never talk to the man or bear his child again. Ever. Never. Ever. I was swiftly falling into my favorite comfort cloud of self-pity. In my mind's eye pregnant women all over the world were being pampered, spoilt and more or less being treated like princesses while I had to deal with...well...whatever I was dealing with (Even at the time there wasn't much clarity on that). This lasted for a bit. I called my best friend and bitched and moaned. She knowing me like the back of her hand, calmed me, patted me on the head (metaphorically, we were on the phone remember). We went into one of those conversations where all sentences begin with either "Boys are just so..." or "Men never...". I got off the phone, calmer, then I got a bit bored and did the usual surfing around the net looking for interesting stuff on food/art/pregnancy/decor/anything. That 's when I chanced on this article. The music surged to a crescendo, the waves of hormones slammed my brain like a tsunami. And oh boy! did I bawl!!! The blogger has written about her very very difficult and painful delivery. That was it! the flood gates of emotion and snot opened up until there was neither left in me anymore. Nose dry and eyes bleary- I was done. M walked in, jaw droppingly confused.
Just to clarify: The angry-cry-snot-feeling lighter stuff does not mean that I discount all the aggravation that dirty laundry brings me. It still makes me angry and probably will forever. I don't think I will be able to shake off the sheer jealousy of why I get bothered by crap that he doesn't even notice and why I , having had as carefree and worry-less a childhood as him, have had to grow up and take care of a house, while he gets to be taken care of. Its a whole other feminist argument I can write a thesis on. But then, I am also a sucker for the boy who pays the bills on time, worries about the quality of mangoes I eat and despite and usually right in the middle of my loudest angry argument, gives me the tightest hugs.
It has happened before and I am not saying it won't happen again. No promises there. I will try to be vigilant about my mood swings but man! when it swings...its Pretty.Badly.Swung!
Don't believe me? Ask M. He may answer you if when he comes out of shock, shuts his hanging jaw and splashes cold water on his face. Yesterday evening, I left him like that, before turning over in bed and promptly falling asleep. But I am getting ahead of myself...
I am married to a man who hangs his clothes on pegs behind the door (i.e doesn't leave them on the floor), almost never leaves a wet towel on the bed, changes the toilet paper roll, pays bills on time, fills the ice trays, saves money for the future and is the champion of lazy cuddling. So far so good. ok. He is also a man who nearly has the door coming off the hinges from all the clothes hanging on it, he never agrees that the fans/sheets/curtains are dirty enough to be cleaned, seldom does his own laundry, never remembers to pick up clothes from the clothesline when he does, finds folding clothes before putting them in the closet "a gross waste of time", can use the same towel forever until it runs threadbare without thinking of putting it in the wash , habitually wipes his wet/dirty hands on his jeans/t-shirt and uses dirty socks for target practice as he sits on the bed, takes them off and aims for the laundry basket (he seldom makes the "basket" because he fails to notice the lid on it). Most of all, it doesn't help that he is a man of few words. Monosyllables are his thing and he uses them minimally.
On most days I try to focus on the first half of the last paragraph. On most days, I am also not hemorrhaging with hormones. Occasionally (once or twice a month) when I am, it causes confusion, tears and commotion. Usually in that order. Then its back to status quo.
Being pregnant means that I now, thanks to the overload, get to extrapolate all this and take my dissatisfaction up several notches. Yesterday, it seems (as later revealed) I mistook his stray off-hand minimalist comment about the mango I was going to put in my oatmeal to mean something entirely different than what it was intended to mean (or at least that's what he claimed when we decided to "talk" about it)
He: You're eating that?
I hear: You fat woman, you're going to eat that Mango?
Me (Aloud): Yes. Why?
He: Couldn't you find better... (implying, as later explained, the one I had was too ripe)
I hear: Can't you find something better to eat?
Me (Aloud and hissing): I will eat what I want to eat. ok! ok?
This was followed by several hours of stony silence on my part and him going on with his life like nothing had happened, which made me go from mere stony silence to steely resolve to never talk to the man or bear his child again. Ever. Never. Ever. I was swiftly falling into my favorite comfort cloud of self-pity. In my mind's eye pregnant women all over the world were being pampered, spoilt and more or less being treated like princesses while I had to deal with...well...whatever I was dealing with (Even at the time there wasn't much clarity on that). This lasted for a bit. I called my best friend and bitched and moaned. She knowing me like the back of her hand, calmed me, patted me on the head (metaphorically, we were on the phone remember). We went into one of those conversations where all sentences begin with either "Boys are just so..." or "Men never...". I got off the phone, calmer, then I got a bit bored and did the usual surfing around the net looking for interesting stuff on food/art/pregnancy/decor/anything. That 's when I chanced on this article. The music surged to a crescendo, the waves of hormones slammed my brain like a tsunami. And oh boy! did I bawl!!! The blogger has written about her very very difficult and painful delivery. That was it! the flood gates of emotion and snot opened up until there was neither left in me anymore. Nose dry and eyes bleary- I was done. M walked in, jaw droppingly confused.
Just to clarify: The angry-cry-snot-feeling lighter stuff does not mean that I discount all the aggravation that dirty laundry brings me. It still makes me angry and probably will forever. I don't think I will be able to shake off the sheer jealousy of why I get bothered by crap that he doesn't even notice and why I , having had as carefree and worry-less a childhood as him, have had to grow up and take care of a house, while he gets to be taken care of. Its a whole other feminist argument I can write a thesis on. But then, I am also a sucker for the boy who pays the bills on time, worries about the quality of mangoes I eat and despite and usually right in the middle of my loudest angry argument, gives me the tightest hugs.
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