My third trimester just began, and a complete change came over me almost as soon as it started. Gone are my blissful second trimester days of singing to my tummy, keeping my house clean, and walking around with a smile on my face. Whoever that woman was, she has been replaced with a surly, weepy, angry whale that swims disconsolately around our tiny, horrible, stinky rental house with a gray raincloud over her head. Literally a gray rain cloud, because the weather here has settled into the standard January gloom that digs deeps into the bones of all residents and causes us to either contemplate suicide or stay in a half-drunk stupor until July. That’s right, I said July.
Today is my husband’s birthday, and I managed to heave my bulk out of bed and make him breakfast. He then skipped off to do his customary nerdy things that he does on the weekends (play video games, play with his 3-D printer, write code on his laptop while giggling). He is totally happy and has done nothing wrong – he’s been patient and sweet to me for the last 7 months, and yet, I want to throw him out of the house. My cat, Jean-Baptiste, is sitting on the couch staring at me with huge green eyes and I want to scream at him “Go to hell you striped, lazy moocher!” To distract myself from homicide and felinecide, I left the house and went shopping but as it turns out, hanging out with a bunch of waif-like shop girls doesn’t really make me feel better. When one them asked cheerily “how did those fit?” as I handed back the two size large shirts I couldn’t squeeze myself into I snapped “I’m pregnant – nothing fits!” as if it were her fault.
Obviously, the only remedy for my bad mood is an afternoon of tacky television and a bag of chocolates, but I have things I should be doing. I should be working on the magazine that I write for, cleaning my bathroom, or I dunno, making an apple pie while blue birds come and arrange my hair for me. The thing is, third trimester me doesn’t want to do anything. I don’t want to eat any more, watch any more goddamned TV, or look at any more blogs full of hysterical, preachy advice on parenting. I want to cry and whine, and storm my doctor’s office, demanding that I be delivered from this child!