The Rage Within

Vacation: Day 3
I forgot how boring days at home can be sometimes…and how fast they go.  I filled my morning with trying to find shoes that will go with my wedding dress that are NOT high heels, because let’s face it…I am no Beyoncé or Jessica Simpson. I don’t see how the hell those girls walk around all pregnant in hooker shoes.  I guess if you’re used to wearing them all the time then it’s a different story.  I’ll be sticking to flats. Besides, I think that I would tower over Mike like some amazon woman in pumps and I don’t like that for photos.  Maybe not tower…but I still feel much taller than I should when I wear them and my balance is pretty shitty, even without the baby bump.  Anyway, I gave up because I decided that I would actually need to go to the store to try on shoes. If I ordered something that didn’t fit or didn’t look like it did online and it ended up not working with my outfit, then pregnancy rage would surely ensue.

Pregnancy rage is a funny thing. I honestly don’t remember having it at all when I was pregnant with Mini Me.  I did with Little Man – I was pregnant during the dead of summer in Las Vegas.  You don’t really want to meet a woman with pregnancy rage and hot flashes.
This afternoon I went to pick Little Man up from lacrosse practice.  Right before I left to get him, I realized that I was slightly hungry. I should have grabbed a snack, because pregnant women go from slightly hungry to wanting to eat a full cow in a matter of minutes.  Instead, I decided that I would pick up the kid, then we would just go through the drive-thru of a fast food place down the street.  We pull in and he proceeds to order an insane amount of chicken fingers that nobody in their right mind could consume in one sitting (but he’s a 12 yr old boy and they do that), which has us waiting at the window for practically forever to get our food.  I’m starving by this point. It feels like the alien in my stomach is eating away at my insides, screaming “FEED MEEEEEE”.  I am almost at the stage where I start to get jittery and Hulk out on anyone in my path until I get some sort of food in my stomach.  Then, suddenly, the manager of the store is shoving an overstuffed bag in my face and repeating my order to me.
And I specifically asked her if everything was in the bag. Generally, I would check, but there was a line of cars behind us and I just wanted to eat my lunch.  I got home, handed out the food to the children…and had reached the bottom of the bag.
Where’s my fucking sandwich?!! That bitch forgot my shit!
I was seething. I was playing out the scene in my head on the way back to the place…every nasty, hateful thing I would say to that stupid lady…and I would point. Yes, I would point my finger right in her face and make her sorry for leaving my food out of that bag.
I marched in there with a look that I hoped would strike fear in everyone around me – when she spotted me. And immediately recognized me. And immediately started apologizing…over and over again. And she gave me a free cookie for my “inconvenience”.  Damn it.  She had to be nice. I was ready to jump over the counter and fight for my fucking sandwich and she had it ready for me when I came in.  That bitch.
I was still pissed off, though. I didn’t get to eat when I wanted. That’s not cool.  Then she throws out, “I’m really glad you came back”…like I was just going to stay home and eat a salad or something? Fuck that!
As soon as I got home and shoved the steaming hot chicken sandwich in my face, all was forgiven.

The moral to this story is: Pregnancy Rage is some scary shit. You could get your face torn off if you aren’t careful. But, it can easily be cured with food.  Or maybe a nice back rub.
I think I’m hungry again.


2 thoughts on “The Rage Within

  1. I was far more likely to succumb to pregnancy tears than rage.

    Also, what is up with how much 12 year old boys eat? I swear, we’re going to have to take out a loan to feed our three boys through high school. After that, they buy their own damn groceries.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s