I'd forgotten how much it was possible to eat. I'm out. of. control. On the plus side though, holy cow, look at those great fingernails! Why the hell aren't they breaking off at the cuticle like normal? But uh-oh, I forgot about the supersenses. There's one piece of citrus on the turn in this supermarket and nobody is harassing the spotty yoof stacking mandarins: Yo! Buddy! Yes, it's me, the spherical one commando-crawling across the floor with a bag-for-life tied round my nose; there's a mouldy one in there, TRUST ME, I can smell it from the carpark.
And oversensitive much? Wince. Imagine if you will: one crabbit old bus driver glides past our stop in the stotting rain and tries to make out it's my fault for about ten seconds before noticing the bump and the shivering five-year-old ballerina by my side. His admission of guilt and grudging apology is too half-hearted and too late, and the rest of my day becomes consumed with prolonged hurt overreaction. This one-minute-long minor squabble with a stranger morphs into a dismal puddle of "everybody in the whole world thinks I'm just a fat, brainless idiot".
Truly, these hormones, they send you loopy. Handle your gestating friends with kid gloves I beg you.
But some things are different this time around. I no longer have a full-time, overpaid job that I have to pretend to be engaged with. And I don't feel any desire to buy into any of the bossy, stress-inducing pregnancy manuals this time. Everything is generally a bit more relaxed, a bit less terrifying, and a bit more... normal.
As The Boss would say, "That's a phew, right?"
And this time I know how to knit stuff for the dragon baby, a significant advantage over last time. Because you can't eat and knit at the same time.
And that is a serious phew.
|The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, and the remnant-busting baby sweater|