This morning, I threw caution to the wind. Got in my car—just my dog and me—and headed for the hills. Played my music LOUD. Left my life behind.
Goodbye, cruel world. Hasta la vista. Sayonara. Arrivederci.
Eat my dust.
Okay, so I was only headed down the mountain to the vet’s office, so he could remove stitches from my dog’s ear, but still. It was a moment.
Allow me to share:
Have I mentioned that I’m pregnant? Very, very pregnant? And that I have a 3 year-old? A particularly rascally 3 year-old? And a husband who works from home?
I do. And it’s GRAND. But this morning, I got hit with the ornery stick. And everything about all of it—mostly being very pregnant—came to a boiling point. Remember that scene in whatever Will Smith movie it was where the asteroid hits the Earth? Like that.
First, it started with me waking up and realizing that I. was. still. pregnant.
Shocker, right? And how could I tell? The aching hips, legs, ankles. The ginormous belly. Oh, and the fun fact that I no longer possess a jaw line.
And then there was the moment in front of my closet when I realized that since it was going to be a creepy 60 degrees today, I officially had nothing to wear. That even my maternity clothes weren’t fitting comfortably. And I had to go back to my hometown. A place where people actually look presentable on purpose. As I’m standing there, throwing discarded clothing in a pile on my bed that was beginning to resemble Jabba the Hut (the monstrous pregnancy pillow that keeps me sane each night giving it an extra lift), there was some lovely background music.
It went like this: screaming 3 year-old, refusing to go to the potty. Angry daddy threatening the screaming 3 year-old. Dog-on-pain-meds-who-can’t-control-her-bladder barking, for the love of Pete, to be let out of the ever-loving house.
But back to me. In that mature clothes-flinging moment, I also remembered the fact that every single person who has asked when I’m due to have this baby guesses months early. Months. And when I tell them, they’re surprised. Some, mostly men, have told me outright I look like I’m well into my third trimester.
Like the lovely young gentleman (all of about 26 years-old) who sidled up next to me at the Freshens stand in the Atlanta airport a few weeks ago. Our conversation went like this:
Him: (looking down at my belly with a smirk. Yes, a smirk.) Having a baby?
Him: How far along are you?
Me: About 23 weeks.
Him: Man, you look more like 30.
Me: Why, you precocious little s%$#.
Kidding. But I thought about it. “One of these days, Alice … POW! Right in the kisser!”
So, back to the ornery stick. It hit me hard this morning. I groaned. And moaned. And pouted. And scowled. And slammed doors. My husband tried to appease me. Nothing he said helped. My daughter tried to appease me. That just made me feel guilty. My dog looked at me with learned wariness, from afar.
Yes, Mr. Melville. I felt like taking to the sea. Like knocking people’s hats off.
In the car on the way down the mountain, I fumed. Thankfully, there were no tourists in front of me, inching down the winding two lane road at 5 miles per hour. (They’ll get here about April. Grrr.) I vented to my dog. I tried to think of a way out of my current situation, but really, there's no cure for being 26 weeks pregnant.
I did this to myself. (My husband helped.) I’m not sure I’m doing it again.
The only thing that soothed my bitter soul? The sweet, raucous sounds of Brandi Carlile’s new album, Bear Creek.
Girl’s got pipes. And songwriting skills to boot. The song on repeat in my car this morning was “Raise Hell.”
Check her out singing live on the Craig Ferguson Show:
So, I’m home now. Calm. (Okay, calmer.) My dog got her stitches out. My daughter had a good day at preschool. My husband is still my husband.
But my temper tantrum of a morning taught me a little something.
It ain’t pretty, but sometimes—just sometimes—mama needs to raise a little hell.