This past week . . . I was INSANE! Seriously, between the stress of the Little Lady’s hospitalization, being pregnant, not sleeping, not eating well, and just being hormonal, it’s a wonder I didn’t kill someone.
Here’s just a snippet of the crazy pregnant hullabaloo from my head:
“I will drop kick anyone that attempts to console me right now.”
(Immediately after handing the Little Lady to the OR staff)
“I’m not hungry . . . no, I am hungry. . . no — I don’t want to eat. Oh, my God, where is the food?”
(waiting, in the hospital food court, for the surgery to end)
“Kid, you better BACK OFF!”
(the “mean me” . . .in the waiting room . . . mentally directed to some poor (albeit) annoying child)
“She’s so little!”
(seeing the Little Lady for the first time in the recovery room)
“Baby Boy, you’d better stop kicking my bladder . . . now is NOT the time!”
(in recovery, desperately needing to go to the bathroom but not wanting to leave my little girl)
“Holy CRAP — where is that nurse?”
(in our room, every night when the IV alarms would go off for no reason WHATSOEVER!)
“So help me, if she pokes her one more time . . . .”
(holding the Little Lady, watching the Lab Tech try get blood from the Little Lady’s fingers)
“Why do people have to freakin’ SNORE?”
(this flashed through my mind every single night . . . and, no, I’m not naming names (yet))
“Please, God, why does this have to be so rough for her?”
(watching and holding my Little Lady as she screamed and writhed in pain for 30 minutes)
“Yeah, you’re cute, Doc. . . but that doesn’t mean you can just waltz in our room at 7 am. Dear, Lord, I hope I wasn’t all sprawled out asleep in some funky position. Crap — was my mouth open?”
(Thursday, 7 am, as the Little Lady’s doctor came in for an update)
“Awwwwww.”
(watching the Little Lady asleep on my belly, while she was blissfully unaware that her baby brother was kicking her face over and over and over)
“What, am I the ONLY woman in Houston who owns a MIRROR?”
(first excursion on “the outside;” a trip to the grocery store . . . and my petty, internal response to the VERY ill-fitting hoochie outfits I saw on every aisle)
Mmmmmm . . . . pregnant, stressed out me, is very, very, VERY violent! I’m a little scared of myself right now!
