I am thankful that, for the most part, this pregnancy has been uneventful. Sure I was a little queasy and tired first trimester. And, yes, I did have that one night when I had a total melt-down in the middle of the vitamin aisle at Safeway (why on earth are there 15 varieties of iron supplements?). But overall, I’ve felt mostly ok and mostly myself.
Not this week. This week I got a dose of the CRAZY that pregnancy hormones can cause. I should start by saying that I am usually pretty even-tempered. I’m not a drama queen. I don’t cry unless I’m really angry. I don’t LIKE crying.
I had very busy days at work on Monday and Tuesday culminating with a 3-hour IEP meeting with attorneys, psychologists, and all sorts of experts. In this meeting I had the privilege of being verbally attacked by the parents. It is not a new situation, so I was not surprised. I am confident that my team is doing an excellent job with a very difficult student so I am willing to take a few licks to defend the team. But it’s never easy to feel attacked and by the end of the meeting I was both physically and emotionally exhausted.
It was 4:00. I had an invitation to an adoption party for my dear friend Krys and her new daughter Paige at 6:00. I’m so excited for them because the three long years of working through the system from foster care to adoption are finally over. In a generous mood I had offered to bring a hot dish to the potluck. That meant I had exactly 2 hours to drive home, stop at the grocery store along the way, whip up a hot dish and drive to the church where the party was. I abandoned my plans to make lasagna when I hadn’t gotten that done over the weekend. I had amended the cooking plans to penne pasta with meat sauce, parmesan and mozzarella cheese. I knew it was possible to accomplish this in 2 hours. If everything went exactly right.
And it did. I hit green lights on my way home from work. I was in and out of the grocery store in record time. I was a whirlwind in the kitchen: boiling pasta, frying hamburger, assembling casseroleness. I was exhausted, but my plan was working. While the casserole was in the oven, I cleaned up and took my purse and the gift I’d made for Paige out to the car so I wouldn’t have to carry everything out at once. I put the dogs in the basement, grabbed my hotpads, and pulled my acceptible-looking-but-definitely-not-gourmet casserole out of the oven.
Whew! It was all going to work! I carried my casserole out to the car and opened the car door. And that is when the unthinkable happened. Somehow the Pyrex dish slid out of my hot-padded hands and shattered all over the street. Shattered. All. Over. The. Street. Sparkly glass and cheesy pasta spread artistically across 49th Ave. I couldn’t even think through what to do next. But the pregnancy hormones knew what to do: cry. And so cry I did.
Fortunately, we live on a quiet street so only a few carloads of people saw the large, pregnant woman crying hysterically in the middle of the street with a sparkling cheesy mess radiating from her feet.
And here’s the thing about crying with pregnancy hormones: once I started, I couldn’t stop. I stood in the middle of the street and I cried. I sat on the front porch and I cried. I tried to call Nate for moral support (no answer) and I cried. I got the dustpan and a garbage bag and cleaned up as much of the street as I could and I cried. Nate got home from work, took one look at me, and asked what happen. So I told him and I cried. He carefully moved the car so he could clean up the rest of the glass on the street. By the time I finally stopped crying, I was late to the party, puffy-faced, empty-handed and in no mood to socialize. I put on my pajamas, curled up on the couch and watched t.v. until I dulled my brain in to submission.
And so I am thankful that, for the most part, this pregnancy has been uneventful. I don’t think I have the energy for more “events” like this one.