Getting My Hate On

OK, I don’t really hate.  It takes too much time and energy, and I think that I can usually see both sides of an issue, or see the good in bad things, even if I don’t appreciate them as being good for me. 

That said, the end of pregnancy brings out all the curmudgeonly thoughts and feelings I have about everyone and everything.  I really need to go into hiding for these last few weeks, or I might piss off everyone I know by not showing any restraint on my opinions.  How does that outfit look on you?  Ugly.  Because everything looks ugly when viewed from the perspective of the girl lugging a 28 pound basketball around under her shirt whose heartburn burns so much that it’s risen to her eyeballs so all she can see is fire.  Everywhere.  You look like you’re on fire.  You’re ugly.  And people don’t like it when I say that out loud.

I made the mistake of reading a few articles out of Better Homes & Gardens last night.  Complete with families with giant houses that they could afford to renovate into some theme, and then decorate for Christmas using unicorns and rainbows and only homemade (but super fancy) decorations and only flowers that were arranged in their spare room for arranging flowers.  Complete with four lovely blonde children in light colored sweater vests gazing adoringly at their beautiful blonde parents, lovely in their white sweaters and white pants, drinking red wine on their white sofa while they laugh at some imaginary joke that doesn’t at all look staged, with a picture perfect tree in the background, sparkling with fake snow and dove ornaments.  All with instructions on how you can make fake snow out of the cocaine you aren’t snorting and make fake dove ornaments out of the dead pigeons and rats that your cat left on your back step, all by using magical unicorn spray paint.  (OK, I may be exaggerating with that last part.)

There was also the person who decorated her lovely white (but real, I’m sure!  More unicorn spray paint!) tree with hot pink ornaments and a giant hot pink bow on top (it’s so unexpected!), and who mostly loved how the ‘flickering of the candles against the homemade paper candle jar wrappers really captured the essence of the holiday season.’  Seriously?  That’s what captures the essence of the holiday season?  Not the incarnation of God, but the flickering of the candles?  Get the fuck out of Christmas—you don’t deserve it.

I’m also to the point in this pregnancy where people back away from me in public places.  Either they back away, or get annoyed when I drop something and it takes me five full minutes to figure out how to hike up my elastic waistband jeans so I don’t show too much of my hot pink underwear (hey, it’s not on my Christmas tree—don’t judge), bend down, and get back up without tipping.  I’m totally front heavy.  Inevitably I also have a tiny human climbing on me—she bent down!  Must be piggy back ride time!  Or, I go to the gym to exercise, and have people tell me that I’m basically a superhuman for exercising (I’m not—I’m just getting my hate out in a fairly productive way), or that I really should stop (because, after all, if they’re exercising in the gym with me, they obviously are also my doctor).  And if I do stop to take breaks while I’m in an exercise class (which I do—I’m not a superhuman, I just enjoy going to the gym), the whole class has to stop to make sure my water didn’t just break or that I’m not dying.  I’m only 34 weeks, people!  My water isn’t going anywhere, and if I’m dying, I will damned well leave the class so you don’t get to rubberneck it!

I will not be making garland for my Christmas tree out of wooden beads and stripey straws.  I love my home, but it isn’t tidy, and probably won’t be for awhile because I am an infrequent cleaner, and when I get started I also get tired and take breaks, and I live with three small human creatures who try really hard to clean up but also sometimes suck at it, a husband who is working all the time because he is thisclose to making his billable hours for the year, and so getting those billables in is way higher of a priority than cleaning—although he definitely pulls more than his fair share of the load (note: all), a dog who currently has a diarrhea problem that she is sharing with us in the house (but hey, the diarrhea was on hardwood floors—it could have been worse).  The diarrhea would probably go away if she would stop eating all the food off of our counters when we take the kids to school, but we aren’t home to correct her behavior and she’s a dog, so she’s dumb and doesn’t associate the fact that she ate an entire batch of cookie dough (damned dog) with the fact that she then shit all over my boys’ bedroom, which I found right before Henry’s lunch and nap.  (Dear Dog, please shit somewhere that I can close the door and ignore so that my darling, patient, loving Kullervo can clean it up when he gets home from work.  Bedrooms are not that place.  Love, katyjane).  We also have a cat.  She’s not really that much of a nuisance, really.  She kills and decapitates rats outside, though, which is always a fun treat for the kids to find.

All that hate aside, I really do love being pregnant.  The PUPPP is gone.  There are aches, there are pains, and there are days that sitting down on the couch and reading a book or watching TV feels like heavy exertion which totally knocks the wind out of me (what’s up with that, anyway?  And does it count as exercise?).  There is heartburn.  There is the fact that my ankles have disappeared and my face is getting fatter, and boy oh boy do I miss having a guilt-free glass of wine or unreasonably sweet liqueur drink every now and then.  There is the absolute exhaustion and the inability to sleep for long periods of time because water only tastes good after midnight, which leads to a lot of bathroom breaks in the middle of the night, which is good because I had to turn over anyway, and turning over involves moving my enormous self and all eight of the pillows it takes to hold the basketball belly in place, and then trying to figure out where the blanket went.  But, along with all of the annoying aspects of the last few months (who am I kidding—we’re to weeks now, not months), including my bad attitude to all things that highlight my lack of craftiness, creativity, and ability to wear white, pregnancy is great.

I go to the gym, and people think I’m a superhero!  Nobody judges me for stopping because I’m winded—they judge themselves much more harshly if they slow down.  I have a tiny human living inside of me who moves around and is going to grow up and be something pretty incredible (at least, if my others are any indication), and likely much more good looking than either of his or her parents.  I look way better really pregnant than I will for the six months after pregnancy.  For the first time in my life, I like cinnamon, which is really convenient at this time of year when cinnamon and nutmeg are in everything.  Being pregnant is a fun, crazy science experiment on my body, and I will really, really miss it when it’s over.  Especially knowing that this is my last pregnancy.

So, in short, if you see a crazy look in my eyes, know that I’m probably hating you.  But since hating doesn’t come naturally to me, I’ll feel guilty for it later, and it won’t last longer than any pregnant mood swing does.  (And maybe don’t ask me my opinion.  About anything.)  Also, I might not be hating you, I might have forgotten what the heck I was about to do, or why I’m where I am.  Or I might be trying to figure out how to tie my shoes when I can’t see my feet.

P.S. The fact that I couldn’t even get through a blog post about how much I hate everything without backpedaling and talking about how it’s all not that bad sort of makes the hormonal crazy lady pregnant part of me hate myself.  The rest of me is glad that the normal happy-go-lucky, optimistic me still exists.

One response to “Getting My Hate On

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