The title sums it up. When I’m pregnant, I can be a beast. Not that I can’t be a beast on other occasions; I just tend to be particularly good at it when I’m being invaded by an extremely small person.

I do like to think that with each pregnancy I’ve gotten a little better. A little less prone to sudden bouts of irritation, tears, menace, Godzilla-like destruction, etc, and a little more able reduce the ravings I’d like to shout out to a mere, “Oh. That’s annoying.”

A little.

All of this, of course, goes out the window if I don’t feel well.  Like today when I have an honest-to-goodness virus infesting my ever-increasing body (I can only imagine how inviting it must look to the little parasites, really), about all of my conversations with DB have gone like this:

Me: I love you!  You’re wonderful!

DB: *Happily* Thanks. But I really need to tell you X, Y, and Z.

Me:  WHAT?

DB: *Warily* I know it’s not what you wanted, but–

Me:  RAWR!!!  END of conversation!

Poor DB. The kids haven’t gotten off easily either. While I have been completely unfazed by major spills, toys everywhere, and half-eaten meals, the lack of sharing was a major button today.  Probably directly related to the fact that StrawBee had a full-blown meltdown every time there was a sharing-related problem. And hooboy, are her meltdowns a vision to behold. Still, I’m bigger than them, and thus have a proportionally larger ability to be both rational and even-tempered.


But DB generally does get the brunt of my bad behavior. I think I must believe, deep down inside, that he can handle it better than the kids (who might be scarred for life) or any of my other general acquaintance (who might run away and never come back).  It’s really amazing to me how he can just let my occasional outbursts roll off his back. Sometimes I think he’s learned to find the whole thing secretly amusing. You know, as a matter of survival. And there is something funny about the whole performance. Oh, yes, because I left off the end of the earlier conversation. See, they start out like the above, then five to ten minutes later pick up again with this:

Me: *Tearful* DB, I am so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.

DB: That’s okay, honey.

Me: No, really!  I mean it!  I’m such a stinker!

DB: It’s okay. You had a long day and you don’t feel well.

Me: That’s not a good excuse. I’ll make it up to you, ok?

DB: If you think you need to, dear, but it’s really okay.

Me: No, no. It’s not!  Um… dinner? Dessert? Back rub? Time to yourself? Board game?

…This goes on until I’ve pestered him into letting me “make it better.”

Although, come to think of it, the guy has a pretty good racket going. Yeah, let her blow up for a few minutes… wait a few minutes more… play the patient hubby, then get whatever the heck I want!  And the more hesitant he is to take up my overtures of niceness, the bigger the reward I offer. Up to and including a guy’s night out with me preparing mounds of food and spiriting the children away to give him alone time.

Not that he doesn’t deserve it.

But still.

I think DB and I might need to have a little chat. Rawr.


About Carolynn the Dyer

If I've learned one thing by having three children in four years, it's that babies are not, in fact, the best birth control. ... Okay, just kidding. I've really learned that laughter is the only way to survive the wilds of parenthood, and life in general. Also, that it is indeed possible to do dishes, parent, and carry on a conversation at the same time. If that sounds like fun, or just impossible, then come join me on my blog--and join me in the jungle.
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