Tuesday, February 01, 2005

I Miss Me.

I just e-mailed my beloved and asked if he's as tired of my pregnant mood swings as I am. How stupid am I? The poor man can't answer this question. What was I thinking? So now there's a small, sunny office in downtown Toronto covered with the contents of his head. There's gray matter sliding down yellow walls onto scuffed hardwood floors and a MAC that's dripping with the blood of the man I love.

I've blown up my husband. I'm sure of it. His brain went into overdrive trying to figure out the best response (the one that would cause the least violently emotional outburst from me) and it simply blew up.

Men aren't equipped for answering these kinds of questions this late in their wives' pregnancies. Not after 8 months of calming irrational fears, dodging endless "does this make me look fat?" queries, researching morning sickness and heartburn remedies online, watching doctors poke and prod, pretending to see the sweetness in a grainy black and white ultrasound of an alien blob, sitting through breastfeeding classes and just generally soothing, placating, reassuring and comforting.

So this is my public apology to my beloved. Or what's left of him. I'm sorry I asked you if you were as sick of my mood swings as I am. Of COURSE you are -- but I had no right to ask, because I know you can't answer with any truthfulness.

I'm also sorry that I'm at my most exhausted and bloated (and, therefore, freaked out) right about the time you walk in the door after working hard all day long. I'm sorry that the me you married has turned into some other women (who even I don't recognize half the time) who burps and farts with reckless abandon but chastizes you when you do the same. I'm sorry I have no energy and prefer naps to making out. I'm sorry I can't lift anything bigger than a slice of bread, shovel snow or change the cat box (okay, I'm not actually that sorry about the cat box).

I miss me too. But they say I'll be back. Unfortunately I'll be back with a tiny someone whose mood swings will be far worse than anything you've seen from me these past 8 months. Fortunately they say we'll love every single second of it.

So they say, anyway. But somehow I believe them.

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