third trimester

Maternity Monday: Prego meltdowns-the best of 2010

So...blame it on prego brain or call it revisionist history, but I can't remember what my personality was like before I got pregnant.  Although I'm pretty sure I wasn't that emotional. Didn't cry that much. Didn't get that angry. Definitely didn't have that many meltdowns! Dare I go so far as to describe my pre-prego self as mostly calm, cool and collected? I mean, don't get me wrong, I definitely had my moments. But since becoming pregnant, woah, child! I've learned that I have the capacity to be one freakin' hot mess prego.

So in honor of my third trimester, here are three prego meltdowns that I'm not particularly proud of (in no particular order):

The Delivery Boy Destruction: Don't mess with a hungry prego!

I'd like to preface this by saying: Dear Mr. delivery guy of sub sandwich shop that shall remain nameless, if you are out there, I am very sorry for what you had to go through and if I could take it back, I would... Long story short, forty-five minutes after placing my order for a veggie sub, this hungry prego was pacing on her front porch, frantically searching for the headlights of the delivery truck. By the time the sub sandwich showed up (it took an hour and 15 minutes!), I'd officially lost my mind. Eyes bulging, hormones raging, face beat red, I called the manager from the delivery guy's phone and argued that he should give the sub to me for free. The manager said no so I held the delivery guy's phone hostage and said I wouldn't return it until he gave me my free sub. The poor guy just stared at me as if he was witnessing an exorcism. As my head spun around on my neck, I had visions of grabbing the sub, locking my front door and eating the sandwich in a heated rush before the prego police showed up to revoke my prego card and throw me in the loony bin. The hubs gently grabbed the delivery guy's phone from my hand and sent him on his way with the sub. As I watched the delivery truck disappear down the street and big wet tears fell down my cheeks, I knew it was one of the lowest points of my prego career.

Mint Chip Meltdown: Don't ef with a prego's cravings

Let's just say that since I've been with child, I've been rather territorial about certain food. And when the hubs polished off the last few spoonfuls of my beloved mint chip ice cream, you would've thought he'd told me I looked fat in my maternity pants. As I clutched the empty Breyer's ice cream container for dear life and thought about licking the remaining mint chip clumps off the lid, I began sobbing hysterically. Hubs offered to go to the store and get more but I stomped out of the kitchen like a five-year-old child throwing a temper tantrum and refused to let him go. I knew I was being ridiculous but I couldn't stop myself or the tears from flowing. I cried myself to sleep, wondering if the hubs would still love me in the morning. (He did.)

Christmas Card Catastrophe: humor the prego's neuroses

It was a few weeks before Thanksgiving. And you'd think I would've been worried about the fifteen family members I was having over, who was making the stuffing or if the turkey was going to be large enough for me (and everyone else). Nope. I was obsessing about our Christmas cards. I was nearly eight months pregnant and it dawned on me that if I gave birth a few weeks early, I'd *gasp*, never get my holiday cards out on time.  I knew I couldn't sleep that night until the cards were handled. As I hopped on Shutterfly and began desperately uploading photos and arranging them in the holiday card template, all hubs could do was roll his eyes.  He tried to be the voice of reason, explaining that we had plenty of time, but I couldn't stop. I was like a mad woman, determined to get the cards out not one minute later than December 1. And I made it! Well, until I came up 25 cards short and had to do a re-order. And we won't even get into what my mood was after that. *I'm sure you can take an educated guess*


Lisa, a.k.a, "hot mess prego"

Maternity Monday: Open Letter To The Third Trimester

Dear Third Trimester, Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm f***ing over you, dude!

Oh how I'm missing the second trimester. He was so kind to me- making me feel all glowy and cute and sassy. Sometimes I daydream, remembering the days of no hip pain and being able to breathe. You know, the little things... I know you're just doing your job and getting me to my delivery date, but you should know that I'm just not that into you.

Thanks to you, I might as well cancel my gym membership and join Curves. The other day a seventy-five year old woman broke a sweat power-walking on the treadmill next to me while I could hardly move one foot in front of the other.

But to be fair, perhaps you shouldn't shoulder all of the blame-- maybe the the second trimester could've warned me that YOU were coming. I was in such a blissful state full of energy and excitement that when you showed up, I felt like I was hit over the head with a giant box of Pampers.

Faster than you can say "heartburn" I would've prepared myself for your arrival. Because just like clockwork, the day you showed up on the scene, my skin began to break out, all I wanted to eat was chocolate, I began waddling like a duck and sleep became non-existent. In fact, it was one morning- about 2:30 a.m. that I had the idea to write this letter to you. I was peeing- yet again- and overcome with frustration- tired of spending more sleeping hours on the toilet than in my bed. Why couldn't you just let me sleep through the night once? And spare me your excuse that you and mother nature are working together to prepare me for what's to come. Whatevs. You and I both know you could give me a night here and there and nobody would get hurt.

And do you really find it necessary that I still randomly hurl? Sometimes I feel like you're getting some sick and twisted pleasure out of this. Like you and the first trimester are in cahoots because you're jealous of my relationship with the second trimester?!

Can we cut some sort of deal here? Like if I agree to stop trashing you on my blog you won't seal my fate and make me spend the last few weeks of my pregnancy sleeping in a chair or worse, standing up?! (I have a friend you did that to!) Or maybe you'll spare me swollen ankles? Or give me a night off from heart burn?

Well, Third Trimester, it looks like either way, we've got eight weeks and six days until the estimated delivery date. So I call a truce. Despite my rants, I've loved being prego (yes, I'm one of those women) and think there's been nothing else in my life this amazing (sorry, honey, but I promise our wedding day was a close second *wink* *wink*). So if you're unwilling to make a deal, I'll suck it up and power on. Because, honestly, I can handle this. I really can. Because in the end, no matter what happens in the next two months (and I realize it could get ugly), the day my baby is born you'll be a distant memory (at least I pray you will).



**Calling all moms, moms-to-be or men/women with an opinion: Leave a comment here and be entered to win a copy of Baby Love by Norah O'Donnell and Chef Geoff Tracy. We'll randomly select the winner on Wednesday! **