With each pregnancy, you become more emotionally unstable. While I have no scientific evidence to back up this statement I believe it to be accurate and at the moment, in my 6 months pregnant state, no one will question this as there are two ways it could go;
1. The opposing person is shut down immediately with a blast from my fragrant tongue and a look similar to a laser gun
2. I burst into tears and throw my arms around them in a pincer grip declaring my undying love for them while begging for them to hold me tighter
The second statement came real last weekend when we attended our good friend’s beautiful wedding. The beautiful day left me emotionally drained, and every time I looked at my drunken husband “Dad Dancing” with our two boys on the dance floor, I cried – sadly I am unable to establish if these were tears of joy or shame.
When the live band got everyone together hugging and dancing, laughing and smiling, I cried at how beautiful life is and how lucky we are to be surrounded by such wonderful people.
When I was pregnant with my first son, it was a breeze. I bearly knew my ever-growing size and the pregnancy and labour were textbook – none of this emotional nonsense.
With my second pregnancy, the first trimester was easy peasy with no concerns or worries, the second trimester had a few wobbles, and by the third trimester I was hospitalised with severe sciatica, and my brain felt frazzled. No sign of extreme emotional roller coasters though.
With this pregnancy, I am a psycho on the edge ready to erupt like Pompeii at any given moment. Despite being well past the 12-week stage, being pregnant is scary. Don’t eat this, don’t do that – it’s enough to drive anyone crazy – but why-o-why am I this concerned with baby number 3? Everyone always said the third pregnancy is natural as we are now deemed as the pro’s, yet I feel like an abandoned puppy just aimlessly wandering around dustbins looking for a chicken carcass.
Today is one of those bad days with mental breakdowns beyond the usual; I can go from happy to sad in 10 seconds flat without any prior warning. The chance of escaping emotional craziness in an evening is slim to none, and the constant self-referencing of being a bad Mum and wife is non-stop whirring around and around in my mind.
I have a plan to bring a smile to everyone’s face this evening though – a lovely family feast followed by a board game – the kids love evenings like that, and it will be nice to spend a bit of quality time together before another little person arrives and takes centre stage for a while.
A spot of Game of Life after dinner and Wowza Majowza! My Roast Potatoes look AMAZING! They are chunky and fluffy and perfectly browning and I cannot wait to devour them. Even Beard claims that they are my best roasties ever and the kids are already asking for extra double portions when I come to serve them up. Success. Who knew that happiness truly is a potato.
I am a great wife, an amazing Mum and the little squidge growing inside me is immensely lucky to have me as a Mummy… Life is good.
**DING DONG** the doorbell rings…
I don’t believe it. Now of all times, it’s the bloody Avon lady and my goodness does she like to chat. And chat. And chat. 10 minutes later and she has me talking about her sister’s pregnancy and how the new Avon fragrance is her favourite because of bla-bla-bla-bla. For reference, the new Avon fragrance smells like festering fox urine, but I buy it anyway to get rid of her. In fact, I buy two; one for my Mother-in-law and then I get another one free. Finally, she’s gone!
Scrummy yummy! Now it’s time to serve those happy potatoes! I cannot wait to eat these…… ?!?!!!?
The roast potatoes are now burnt.
Before answering the door, I turned the oven up to max to bake the honey and mustard glaze on the gammon and forgot to take the perfect roasties out.
I am a terrible wife, a useless Mother and this poor little squidge growing inside me is damned with me as a parent.
AND I despise Avon.
The perfect evening of our family time together is now spent with me crying over the roast potatoes and my family laughing at me. I then lose at Game of Life, and that’s breaking point; I stomp upstairs and go to bed. Goodnight.
Ps. Happiness is not a potato. Potatoes can turn your life upside down.